All Rise
by Natalie Rushman
Summary: "I've seen worlds you've never known about," is the closest he will ever come to telling the truth. But then, he's always been perceptive of others. Pre-Thor through Ragnarok. Rated T mostly to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

Son to a father who was a great king – the head of a proud lineage, and to a queen – wise as she was beautiful and fierce. Brother to a proud, strong, laughing prince.

 _"You were both born to be kings."_

But none of that was to be.

To suspect all one's life that something was awry, and then finally to have the illusions torn away.

All of it was a lie.

 _"So I'm no more than another stolen relic? To be locked up here until you have use of me?"_

To finally have everything – the power that had come to equate worth – and to want none of it.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **More of a prologue than a first chapter…sorry about the length. Promise it gets longer.**

 **This is part 3 of my latest escapade, but is perfect for a solo read if that's what you're interested in.**

 **I plan on releasing chapters in "chronological" order, as I have been with 'Little Lion Man' and 'A Little More'. I put it in quotes because the prologue (above) and first few chapters are more flashback than anything else. Don't worry, it does catch up. For anybody who's interested in reading all 4 and is getting on board later than the initial publication dates, I am planning on putting up a list of chapters in order on my profile page. Once I have that all figured out.**

 **Which leads me to my final note. I haven't finished this one yet. I've written about half of it. My usual writing process involves a lot more perfectionism. I'll do my best to keep up with posting "on time". Should be every few days, or, if you're following my other stories, an update** _ **somewhere**_ **EVERY day.**

 **I HAD wanted to finish them all by 'Ragnarok'. That's not going to happen. But maybe it's all for the best.**

 **Anyway, sorry for the long-ass author's note. They should be short/nonexistent in the future.**

 **I'd love to hear what anybody thinks of the fic as I go, or of the movies. I appreciate feedback/questions/pertinent discussion of any kind, and I hope you like it!**


	2. Chapter 2

He was sure it had all started long ago, long before, but he was always to remember a time, only just shortly after his brother had come of age. They were travelling homeward, just the two of them together. A rainstorm had come upon them that was none of their making, and, seeking shelter from the storm and the even-tide, they had taken lodging at a waystop on the first distant edge of the City.

His brother had taken drink, as had become his way, more freely than he had ought. He sat among the men and he spoke until speech became argument and argument came to blows.

It was no great thing they had fought over, to his recollection. It had rather surprised him when his brother had suddenly risen to lay the speaker low. He himself had lurched backward and toppled his own drink with his elbow.

The both of them had received only the best in martial instruction. Their father had seen that it be nothing less. And his brother was prodigiously strong.

The owner made it known after it was over that such displays were not welcome in his establishment.

He'd glanced furtively at the men – what was left of them. And he repressed a grimace. He fully expected that they would no more be welcome, and deservedly so. The few patrons uninvolved had watched with mouths agape and had not yet thought to close them. Stools and tableware had left shattered remains all across the floor and the bar. The one man's face was little more than a mass of blood.

But his brother had stood to his full height, face bare inches from that of the proprietor.

"Our lodging here is bought and paid for," he'd said, "Now would you let that lie? Or would you have it demanded for the AllFather's sons, _as is our privilege_?"

"Are you sure that was necessary?" he'd asked, later, in their rooms. He'd been more shaken than he'd wanted to admit, and he was moving restlessly in the room, mindlessly shifting things in their placement along the walls.

His brother had lain languidly on the bed, one arm beneath his golden head, starring up at the smoke-grey boards that comprised the ceiling.

"Why?" his brother had turned his face to watch him, "Who's to stop me? _You?_ " Then he laughed, "I thought not. Cease your fidgeting. You're making me nervous. Get to bed."

And that fight had remained in his mind longer than any of the others, because it was the first time he had truly been afraid of his brother.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

As they had grown, they had grown apart, after.

No one would have seen. Companions they were. Brothers. In unguarded moments, friends even to death, as had ever been their wont. But fear turned wary. And wariness grew weary of itself in time. And from the weary there came the bitter, bled the damned.

He was not pure. No more than he was golden, honest, or kind.

Liesmith, they called him. Trickster. Sharp-Tongued, Black-Hearted, Master of Magic. _And they were right_.

But were his brother's sins so much lesser than his own?

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **Should have tagged this on the first author's note, but the song is the title of a Wovenwar song that I heard for the first time about a week ago. I thought the lyrics were strangely apt.**

 **Also, didn't file this one as a crossover, even though there will be scenes from the** _ **Avengers**_ **and most of the main characters from that movie (and a few** _ **other**_ **Marvel characters) will have appearances. This story is about Loki, not about the rest of them, and, since I can't do a three-way crossover, this just made the most sense to me.**

 **I flatter myself by thinking that my approach (specifically for the period between** _ **Thor**_ **and** _ **The Avengers**_ **) is unique. But I don't "get out" much. You'll have to let me know.**


	3. Chapter 3

He went to his brother when Thor was unhappy, even years after.

He could make his brother laugh as no one else could. He knew that. Thor was what friend he had, and those were the moments when he could feel it best. When he could make Thor laugh.

Thor would confide in him. His doubts, his fears.

And he would use what words he knew to soothe.

He didn't know, sometimes, what prompted Thor to do it. To tell him things. Thor knew that he wasn't above using them later, when he was angry. He would throw them back in Thor's face. Thor's hurt and rage in those moments was to be unequalled.

Even so. He went to his brother when Thor was unhappy. And Thor would confide in him.

He didn't know how Thor did it. The things he would say – they were things Loki kept hidden where even his own thoughts barely knew them. But he recognized them in what Thor would speak to life. Thor would tell him things he never would think to share with another. Words that were like weapons in the hands of the hearer.

He knew how those words could be used.

He hadn't always known. He hadn't always been afraid. As a child, even when he had feared what others might do with his words, he had shared them with Thor.

But Thor had changed.

Once, when he was all-but man grown, he and Thor had been alone. They sat together on a tall bridge overlooking the buildings of the City far below in all their glittering splendor.

He was fidgeting and nervous, though he had not moved in a long while.

Thor's words had born within them something akin to the fear in his own heart.

A trial to be passed or some such thing. In after years he was to forget what, exactly.

When Thor had given him space, faltering a little, he'd spoken.

And when he'd done, Thor had remained quiet a long time. Then Thor had looked at him, "But it's not the same thing, really," he'd said. "Of the two, mine is the true test."

And he had thought for one moment to argue.

But he hadn't. He'd bitten his tongue.

Thor stayed with him on the bridge for several moments, looking down at the City below. Then Thor had risen. He'd asked if he would come with him, and he had said he would stay alone awhile longer.

He wondered later if it wouldn't have been better if he had argued.


	4. Chapter 4

Thor sought him out when he wanted someone to listen.

It was how it had always been.

Once, he was to remember after, perhaps a year before the coronation was to come, Thor had been in his cups. Thor had found him. He'd been alone, in the training ring as the sun set, with a book largely ignored on his knee, feeling the first rush of the cool wind from off the water that heralds the night.

Thor had demanded – asked, in his way – that he sit beside him on the steps.

With a quick misgiving he'd asked what was wrong.

Thor would only shake his head and gesture to the place beside him.

He'd gone, and Thor had spoken at length.

Thor's words were not as they had been – little uncertainties and doubts, loves and nerves and boy's dreams. These were words that were near-to treason and he no longer knew words to soothe them. To divert took thought, and he was weary of it.

Drawing a breath he set his mind to his task and Thor stopped him.

"I know what you are doing, Brother," he said. "And it is needless this night. I speak in idleness only. I am powerless to do what things I perhaps ought."

Thor had stood, and he had retreated to his thoughts, uncertain how he should best counter all Thor had said.

He did not disagree with his brother's words, but he feared what it was Thor would do. They were no more children, and Thor had long demanded that be recognized. It was only a matter of time before Thor caused rifts that might never be remade.

A crash on the edge of the courtyard sent a jolt of fear through his chest.

Thor had hit a weapon's rack that stood against the wall. The arms lay scattered about the stone, the rack flung several yards out from its place.

Thor did not turn back.

His hands closed to fists and his teeth locked.

He wanted to go to their father, then. Tell him of all Thor had spoken. Or go himself and foil all Thor's own plans.

Thor had been listened to and pandered to and spoilt his entire life and it had taught him nothing. Should his pride be broken and he be driven to the ground perhaps he might grow to make some use of himself.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **Tomorrow.**

 **It comes out tomorrow.**

 **I'm so excited.**

 **I** _ **had**_ **hoped to have all these stories finished by today, but I took my sweet time getting started, so that's not gonna happen.**

 **Honestly, even if I keep up with these daily updates, we might have as much as another two months.**

 **~The less-more-often mindset in action, Gentlemen~**


	5. Chapter 5

How do you warn the one who won't listen?

The AllFather was a fool. All of them fools. They'd been duped before and he'd _known_ they were unsafe. He'd sensed some lurking in the darkness. He'd fooled their Guardian to prove it could be done, and employed some idiot warriors of the Jotun king to tell it to the AllFather, since the man would not spare time for his own _son_.

Tell a man a thing, and he has none but your word to go on. Show him through evidence not of your making, and he will be forced to believe.

Show the imminence of invasion. Show how inept Thor truly was for the kingship.

As the truly vindictive child he'd been, he'd planted what seed his brother needed.

He'd been so _tired_. _So_ tired of Thor's petulant outbursts against their father.

 _Give credence to your words, since you believe them so much. Or else shut up and let the rest of us live in peace._

Thor had disobeyed before. But this, Father would take seriously. Thor would be made, for once and for all, to obey something bigger and stronger than himself. To see the aftermath of his rash actions.

He recalled riding out with Thor as the bold, stupid prince ventured to Jotunheim, with no more plan than their destination and the goal of winning greater glory and more outrageous tales.

The cold he would remember always, the icy dark within the voice of the Frost King.

 _No Thor. We don't want a war. Asgard is not what it was. Father is tired. The Realm is weak._

He remembered the terrible wrongness of the change that had come over his arm and the horrible certainty that had dropped like the world out from under his feet.

When he'd seen his arm _change_ – had felt the power strip away the seeming of his own skin – he had held everything delicately. This change was not what it demanded to be recognized as. There was an explanation. There _had to be_ an explanation.

Thor, for the first time in perhaps his entire life, was the furthest thing from the forefront of his mind.

And War was come.

And he – he wasn't what…What would Thor say if he knew?

What he would _say_ was beside the point. It was what he was bound to _do_.

What he _ought_ to do…

He remembered Thor, banished for his arrogance to the land of Mortals. To Midgard. Earth. Thor was banished and with him all chance of stability in a newly unsteady world.

Thor had disobeyed their father countless times and received no more than harsh words or a slap on the wrist.

Banishment.

Punishment, he had predicted, but banishment? He'd not foreseen that.

He had been afraid then. In one swift moment he'd regretted everything, but it was gone like lightning in a storm.

Thor couldn't know.

" _The Jotuns must learn to fear me."_

With a suddenness like death, he felt nothing. He felt fragile. He had to know. Had to _do_ something. He couldn't merely watch and wait or he would go _mad_.

He'd gone to the Vault. He was afraid as a child in the dark to reach out, to touch the Casket. All his mother's stories of the death sure to follow echoed in his ears.

Too late for that now.

The awful feeling of an illusion _pulling away_. He felt the bile rise in his throat. His skin was deeply colored and ridged. Blue like vein's blood.

Odin would _come_ for that. He would _sense_ it and he would come and, all else be damned, he would _speak_.

He remembered confronting his father, the truth of his parentage, and the black nothing that had crippled him worse than any pain and _wouldn't go away_.

Every resentment, every insecurity, every petty, childish _need_ he'd kept so carefully pressed back out of sight was exposed and raw and Odin did _nothing_. Odin told him he was wrong to feel anger. Told him he was wrong to doubt their love.

He'd done so much, all his life, not to speak and suddenly the beast he'd always kept back – the _monster_ – reared up in him so powerfully and so quick that he screamed words he barely heard. In his rage and his desperation they spilled over his tongue like vomit and it didn't matter that he was crying or what it was that he was saying anymore.

Only that Odin _understand_.

For _once_ in his life.

That Odin _listen_.

And it only released him in the quick cold grip of the sudden dropping terror that Odin had _died_ – died directly in front of him. And no. That couldn't be. He couldn't be dead. Couldn't. Not with Thor gone. He couldn't.

Breath. Odin was breathing.

The guards were there. He'd called to them.

Remembered the way his voice shook as he spoke to them, the trembling of his whole body when he stood clear of them as they bore the AllFather to his chambers, the way he'd wrung his hands – the way he couldn't force their shaking to _stop_ and how it only reinforced the feeling that they _weren't his_.

He'd wanted to peel the skin off, straight away to the bone.

They'd heard him call.

What more had they heard?

What _more_ did they _know_?

His throat closed and he was cold – so cold. His arms pulled tight about him and he was moving, rocking on the step where the guards had left him like some crazed bereaved creature. Babbling to itself and starting at the slightest thing. Something he must have knocked as he crashed into the room shivered and clattered to the floor with a little clink that sounded to him like thunder. He leapt up, breath harsh and rushing in his throat.

And he'd looked at his hands.

The way his mother had held his hands, fluttering and anxious and sorry and he hadn't really been able to reach back. Hadn't even been sure he wanted to anymore.

The AllFather had fallen into the Odin-sleep and he remembered her looking at the prone form, telling him, "He's put it off for so long now that I fear…"

He'd seen the tears gathering in her eyes. He'd put out a hand to take hers.

And he'd felt nothing.

"You're a good son," she'd promised.

He recalled the Einheriar blocking his path from Odin's chambers and the quick pulse of fear as he drew back.

 _Could they_ know _?_

 _Could word have gotten out?_

In his fear he had been careless of his face, obvious even. But they'd never caught on _before_ …

But no. Not that.

And as he watched them in overwhelming confusion, his Mother had spoken, making him regent – _king_ , even. All had fallen to him.

They had come to witness his coronation.

And his heart had faltered to a quick stop in his chest.

With Thor gone, all had fallen to his shoulders.

In the absence of his brother, Frigga made him king.

And Thor could not come back. Not until all was made well once more. Not until it was well and healed and strong. Not until it was well enough that Thor could not break it.

His mother had trusted him, on the brink of coming war. A war with the people for whom he'd been born. She gave him the chance to prove his loyalty to the Realm of his raising. To the father who had plucked him from the snow. To 'set aside all petty ambition and preserve the peace' as went the king's oath.

 _"Until the Allfather awakens, Asgard is yours."_

He recalled the faith in her eyes as she'd raised her chin, "Make your father proud."

He'd taken Gungnir from the guard's upraised hands. He'd felt its weight in his hands, and, for one moment, he'd felt that he might be able to do it.

And in his naïveté, he'd believed her. He'd thought this a path on which he was allowed. A path through the light.

But beasts are never allowed in the gardens, except, perhaps, on a very tight leash. And slaves work only in the back alleys and passages allotted to them.

She had stayed beside her husband to do what she could to nurse him through.

He'd been sure Odin would never wake, and only marginally sure anymore that he wanted him to. His father and his brother were a part of that old world, the world where he could never quite find his feet. And this – this was a new thing. It rushed in his breast and tangled with the horror of _what he was_.

She was too willing, smotheringly eager to convince him that he still was hers.

He'd never been hers.

He couldn't stomach her concern. With everything fallen through as it had, he didn't want anyone to know. He didn't want her sympathy. Couldn't take it and couldn't _make it stop._ So he left it there, lying between them.

He was twitching and awful. He didn't want sympathy. What he wanted was the space to stave off the War Thor had started.

You _started with your fool attempts at blackening Thor's reputation._

He wanted to make everything go back to the way it had been before.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Demands came from the 'Warriors Three' and the Lady Sif to bring Thor back. Fools. He was King only – he could not undo the decree of the _AllFather_. But they'd been too won by their own glorious reflections to have stayed to learn something so pertinent as that.

He felt nothing as he refused them. They would obey. He was their _King_. His memories of all the time he'd spent beside them were far off and far away, as though they had happened to another. Perhaps they had. That boy who had been friends with these fools was an Odinson, bright and bold and full of hope. He'd suffered from a lingering illness that had slowly drained him of his reason. He had died quietly in Jotunheim, and none had known enough to mourn his passing. No one noticed the creature that assumed his form. This dark, damned thing that _would_ prove its worth.

To preserve the peace would begin with cleaning up his own mess. To make a statement of Asgard's supremacy. Thor had never listened to him. Thor had gone out of his way to begin a war and Thor would not stop. Thor would never stop. Thor would have to be restrained. _Permanently_ if the fool demanded it.

He could not have a war.

Not with _this._

 _"…bring about peace…through_ you."

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

So he had found Thor, gone to Midgard.

On the other side of the mirrored glass. Thor and the little man interrogating him could not see through the glass. He knew that they'd never see him standing there even if they could. Listening with part of himself to the bustle of the thrown-together fortress about him. He felt that he might have found it within some hysterical part of himself to laugh. But not now.

He felt through the people for one who could bow to his suggestion to chase the little man away. His own arrival here ought to have registered on their archaic machinery.

He had business with his brother and he would conduct it _through them_ if he had to.

But he'd rather not.

The Midgardians were stupid, but they were not without their worth, and he would kill as few as he might in this encounter.

Ah. There it was.

He came through the veil as the little agent left. Face to face he looked at the man who wasn't his brother and certainly now would never be a friend.

Thor.

Thor whom he had stood beside for as long as he could remember.

Thor, sodden and filthy in the purely white interrogation room of the hastily raised Midgardian compound.

He'd needed his brother to be himself. One last time.

He'd expected his brother to be as he'd always been. Wanted him to. Needed it. But Thor had been different. The Thor he'd grown beside was gone and the boy he'd been then had never existed at all.

And it had all snapped.

But then, he hadn't _had_ a brother in that particular moment. He'd thought Odin as good as dead and he needed _space_. Needed Thor to shout and rail at him. And when Thor had just taken it, just taken his awful, filthy lies as though they were truths and to be expected, he'd given him up in disgust. His heart was black and waste as the realm it was made in and he felt nothing as he poured lies like poison in his brother's ears and watched him weep at the pain of them. He felt nothing as he bade him farewell, possibly for good. He might never be capable of facing him again.

" _I will hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"_

He felt nothing as he vanished from the cell where the fool was kept.

 _He ought to have tasted failure long ago. Perhaps it will do him good._

Once, he might have gone to Thor with _this._ Might have told him. Might have begged Thor to tell him what he ought to do. But that time was long ago. When Thor was a bold and beautiful little boy. Not the arrogant mess he'd grown into. And certainly not _this_.

He didn't feel. Not anything. He was a toneless actor, carrying out his lines on a poorly-made stage.

He felt nothing when Mjolnir refused his invitation. He was not worthy _yet_. But he would be. When all of this was through, he would be worthy of it all.

Besides, he was already in possession of Gungnir. A prince ought not be greedy.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **In the script, the Odin/Loki interaction goes a little differently. First off, the Destroyer comes to attack Loki when he picks up the Casket, and** _ **that's**_ **why Odin comes in yelling 'Stop.' He's yelling at the Destroyer, who was about to kill Loki, not** _ **at**_ **Loki. Somehow that makes it feel a little nicer, to me, anyway.**

 **(Also – don't know if I pointed this out before – Odin was the only one who didn't think that the Destroyer was a myth. One of the Warriors Three points that out at the beginning. Which I like because the Destroyer never made any sense to me as a part of the pre-story/culture/palace life.)**

 **Back to** _ **that scene**_ **: Loki doesn't menacingly stalk up to where Odin is standing. Each one stays where he is, Loki's getting all emotional and goes to leave when Odin collapses. Distracted from his own problems, Loki runs over and doesn't know what to do, so he calls the guards.**

 **Both Odin and Frigga say that Loki is their son "by blood", which doesn't make sense taken literally, which is probably why they cut that out of the movie, thought I do understand what the characters were trying to say with that.**

 **And it's not in the extended scene that was filmed, but it** _ **was**_ **in the script that when Frigga's talking about the Odinsleep she almost starts crying, and Loki holds her hand.**

 **I just thought that was the cutest thing. It's a real testament to how much the two of them care about each other, and a good instance of him expressing love for her as an adult – I mean, he's trying to take care of her. Pretty much every other scene with the two of them is of her doing something to look after him. I like this side of his character. I couldn't leave it out.**

 **And – last thing – I feel like this is a stage-4 case of stating the obvious, but Loki's not the most reliable** _ **or consistent**_ **narrator. He's going through a lot right now. (** _ **I**_ **think it's totally understandable.) But it bears stating at this point in the proceedings.**


	6. Chapter 6

He'd watched Thor. Watched him with the mortals who'd met him. Watched him decide that his banishment need be no bad thing. Watched Thor succumb to his nature, watching him fight and laugh and smile like he'd always done.

He'd watched, but his mind was elsewhere. He'd known what he had to do next.

And he _didn't want to_.

He watched Thor for a distraction. Something else on which to focus his mind. Because there was no other way. But it need not happen yet. Not just yet. His heart lurched and, distractedly, he wanted to be sick.

He needn't, yet. He ought to wait just a little longer.

His chest constricted and he hated himself. So he was no more than a coward.

He was so much more than that.

He was both coward _and_ monster.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

His feet were on the hard ground of Jotunheim before the panic could stop him. It crushed his chest, but he kept on. The peace demanded it.

He had started this thing. He would finish it.

It was right that he should have to do this. After all he'd wrought. He was as culpable as Thor. Thor suffered his punishment on Midgard. He, on Jotunheim.

A flicker of anger in his chest like a cold flame. His hand closed involuntarily. He remembered why he'd kept Thor on that Realm, and he would do it again. Thor could remain on Midgard the rest of his days.

That thought put the fear to a more respectful distance. He held it.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Firmness of black stone under his feet. And ice. Never ending ice. Fog of breath with every exhale. He must be more powerful than he'd thought. By all rights he shouldn't feel the cold. Shouldn't produce even this thin fog. His body should radiate the cold. His eyes should shun the light of the sun like a scorching fire. Was it his own power, or that of his –

 _Not_ his father. Odin. The AllFather.

Was it Odin's power holding him to this form or was it his own?

The great _power_ of the AllFather himself. To be removed with a single touch. It was laughable, really. Some grim thing in him smiled. He'd always been a performer of sorts. Now it was time to show what truly he was capable of.

Sick heat coiled in his gut like a Vana drake, writhing and sending flares – like pain, except not. More strongly with every step. This feeling was almost like joy. A pain he wanted. A luscious, ecstatic poison – up into his chest like the bile in his throat. Wild. Erratic. Strong.

Capable of anything.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

The hall of the Jotnar king, crippled as it rose menacing before him. Baring its teeth like an injured animal. It wanted healing. He held the cure.

This hall ought to be his own.

Bile rose in his throat and it was all he could do for one moment not to be sick on the Jotun King's floor.

He saw the movement of great shapes beyond the barriers of the ice.

 _"…bring about peace, through you."_

He couldn't lose his hold now.

The creature on the throne was still as though no more than a part of the rock about it.

Then the thing moved.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Jotun guards slid from their places along the walls. They moved up until he could _feel_ the cold that radiated off of them as a thing distinct from the cold of the place itself.

Laufey sneered, "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you."

Hatred was a precious thing. It burned on the dread that wanted to swallow him and set to flame everything that stopped him from smiling up at the _thing_ that had sired him.

He spread his hands, "I've come alone," he said, "and unarmed."

The Jotun king sat back on its throne, lips twisted in disgust, "To what end."

"To offer you _another_ proposition."

The thing leaned forward. "So," Laufey growled. His voice was cold and heavy as the stones, " _you're_ the one who let us into Asgard."

His grin felt like madness, "You're welcome."

"My men are dead," the figure rose and took the steps from its shattered throne with a deliberate slowness he did _not_ recognize. Would, not, recognize. "And I have no Casket." Laufey's leading hand was just behind the king's body, subtly disclosing the blade of ice that formed in its palm from any of a comparable height to itself. The fool did not adjust for their heights. Though, of course, it thought it needn't. "You are a deceiver."

Laufey's hand came down – rough and biting cold – on the thin skin between shoulder and neck, where the veins ran near the surface and might with ease be frozen beyond hope of repair. The leading hand reared and bared the weapon of which he had already been aware.

The illusion burned away. It peeled back.

He let none of the revulsion show, hidden beneath everything else. Ignoring the hand that changed him he brought both hands up and caught Laufey's falling wrist and stared into the shocked face of the Jotun king.

"You have no idea _what_ I am," he hissed.

It was the last thing the King had expected. When Loki released the icy wrist it hovered and the King fell a pace or two back.

He felt himself smile. "Hello, Father."

Laufey looked at him, fascination taking all place of the rage that had enlivened the stone of his face.

He felt the illusion fall back, familiar, a comfort that made him sick.

Then the Jotun king smiled. "The bastard son," it breathed. "I thought Odin had killed you," then its face twisted, "That's what I would have done. He's as weak as you are."

"No longer weak," he snapped, "I now rule Asgard, until Odin awakens." He couldn't stop the sudden conceit as he tipped back his head, "Perhaps you should not have so carelessly abandoned me."

Laufey appraised him. "Or perhaps," it breathed, "it was the wisest choice I've ever made." The creature retreated to its throne. "I will hear you."

He turned away, "I will conceal you," he told it, "and a handful of your soldiers, lead you into his chambers, and let you slay him where he lies." He smiled, turning again to face the king and spreading his hands, "Once Odin is dead, I will return the Casket to you and you can return Jotunheim to all its former…glory."

The creature's face was a study of hunger. "Why would you do this?"

"I suspect that the Asgards would not take kindly a king who had murdered his predecessor," he said. Then he turned his head again. "When all is done, we will have a permanent peace between our two worlds. And I, the bastard son, will have accomplished what Odin and Thor never could."

A sound of falling stones that passed for the things _laugh_ cut through the air. "This is a great day for Jotunheim," Laufey purred, "Asgard is finally ours."

"No," he flashed. "Asgard is mine. The rest of the Nine Realms will be yours, ifyou do as you're told."

It had been a brash overstep. But he found he did not care. Not truly.

Laufey considered him for one, long moment.

Then the creature bowed its head.

"I accept."

A look that was almost a smile played about the Jotun king's mouth.

And he hated the creature. It came in a flush of heat. Roaring, poisonous. It reared up from somewhere deep within him and gripped him about the ribs and wanted to crush him. Wanted to beat him all to ash.

Let it.

Wasn't it all he was now?

Wasn't it _all_ he'd _ever_ been? The Jotnar were given to murderous rages. Why quell it?

The air about him in this dark realm was stale. Sharp. Cold. Refining.

This _power_ was his birthright.

This realm had rotted in its cold and rubble for too long. It was ripe for change. For destruction. Ripe to see what might rise from the ashes.

It had had its chances.

He let his lips peel back, smiling up at the Jotnar king, and he sketched something of a slight bow.

In the cold, the rage had hardened within him to something containable. Something he could wield. Something that did not quite touch him now.

As with any poison that had done its work. Feeling was the first thing to be lost.

 _Take it all. I want none of it._

He tilted his head back to look at the grotesque figure on the throne.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He returned by way of the Observatory, wanting nothing more than to sleep. But he couldn't. He couldn't rest or it would all come to pieces.

The Watchman confronted him.

"What troubles you, Gatekeeper?"

"I turned my gaze upon you in Jotunheim," Heimdal told him, "but could neither see nor hear you. You were shrouded from me, like the Frost Giants who entered this Realm."

Ah, so he'd guessed.

It was about time.

"Perhaps your senses have weakened after your many years of service."

"Or perhaps," the Gatekeeper countered, "someone has found a way to hide that which he does not wish me to see."

Glancing up at the Gatekeeper where he stood, he smiled. "You have great power, Heimdal," he said, "Tell me, did Odin ever fear you?"

"No."

"And why is that?"

"Because he is my King," the Gatekeeper answered simply, "I am sworn to obey him."

"As you're sworn to obey _me_ now," he flashed, "Yes?"

Heimdal paused long enough that he felt himself writhe.

Then, "Yes."

"Good," he snapped, turning on the Watchman, "Then you will open the Bifrost to no one until I have repaired the damage my brother has done."

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **The extended scene there was one of my favorite finds in the script.**

 **So, no, none of that in Jotunheim was originally mine. I just interpreted it from play-by-play to something involving facial expressions and internal dialogue. I also integrated a couple lines from the** _ **movie**_ **, that were not in the** _ **script**_ **, because I thought it sounded better that way.**

 **I just love it. It's more bold and also more convincing than the scene they went with.**

 **It also paints a neat little comparison between Odin and Laufey that I think Loki would really enjoy.**

 **Plus – icing on the cake – it's pretty much the same tactic he uses in** _ **every other movie**_ **.**

 **I'm** _ **finally**_ **seeing 'Ragnarok' tomorrow. I have heard so many conflicting things. I can't wait.**


	7. Chapter 7

Darkness, and he itched to _move_. It was too early yet, to do anything more. He itched to move, but it was too much to rise. Weariness crushed him. He'd done nothing for the hours since he'd returned from Jotunheim. He ignored the summons to dinner.

He hadn't eaten since before everything had begun, he realized distantly. Anything like a midday meal had been lost in the tumult of events, and he'd been nervous before the ceremony. Eaten with misplaced anxiety that something would go wrong.

But that had not been him. That had been…someone else.

He ought to have done something, in all that empty time, but there was nothing to be done. In some ways it felt as though days had come between his conversation with the Jotun king and the dark that crushed into the corners of the throne room. In others, it felt like fleeting moments.

It was nearly time. Just nearly. His hand twitched on the shaft of the spear.

When one of his mother's women came with summons from her he asked if it was serious.

The girl said no, glancing uncertainly about her in the dark, but that the queen would see him, if he would come.

"No," he said. "Tell her I'm busy cleaning up Thor's _mess,_ and I'll come when I may."

He said it coldly, quietly, from the shadows that blanketed the throne room, and the girl hesitated, as though she were unsure.

He flicked his eyes at her, "You're dismissed."

And like one of his own castlings, she was gone.

 _Now_ they feared him.

His chest constricted and he went out to get air.

That is how he had seen the Bifrost activated against his express command.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He'd felt his first real flicker of life in that toneless nightmare when Thor's friends disobeyed his direct order and went to Midgard to fetch Thor back.

 _Please trust me. I saved you all. Without my duplicity you would all have died in Jotunheim._

He ought to have expected that. Which fact in no way quelled the sudden rage that cut like a blade through the nothing he'd felt.

Anger sprung to life in his breast and he would send Death after them.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Finally, to move. He felt like a hawk in full drop towards its unsuspecting prey. Wings pressed to its sides with the wind of its fall running over it like ice and wind and flame.

He went to the Destroyer.

"Destroy everything," he'd breathed, certain that not for one moment would he regret the words.

Gungnir commanded the thing. And it would obey as long as the spear was held by one who wished the order followed.

He might as well finish it.

And besides, it was nearly time.

He went to the Watchman and in the coldness of his new anger he recalled the man's treason and the Casket he'd secreted about him in case of proof to lure the Jotun King all those hours earlier.

If it killed Heimdall, fine. He'd proven himself as good as useless.

And he hadn't anything left in him with which to care. Furious and unable to be still, he'd finally gone to watch from Hildskjalf as the Destroyer worked. He went back to watching the pathetic attempts of the mortals to fly the destruction he'd sent. The 'Warriors Three' and Sif fought, as he'd known they would. Flashy and worthy of legend, but to little effect. The Destroyer worked to the bidding of the one bearing Gungnir and was limited only by the bearers invention.

He could be quite inventive.

Then Thor was there, great and golden, even in his ridiculous mortal clothing.

He saw his brother and that pitiful Foster-woman who had somehow so enamored and enthralled him that he was willing to lay down his life for her safety.

Thor had always been a fool.

Thor had been docile to her, kind and quiet, like he'd been when they'd been children and as he watched her from the throne, he hated her for it. Hated her for winning from Thor what he'd wanted for centuries. Hated Thor for bending so easily to her merest touch.

Thor had guessed he would watch. Thor knew him too well. Thor begged forgiveness.

He hadn't wanted Thor's apologies. He didn't want to remember what was past. It was dead and he was a monster. Blinded, he lashed out.

He didn't expect the blow to kill him.

Thor was the strongest of them all. Thor had survived entire mountains toppling on him. One blow of the Destroyer's hand couldn't be enough to bring the Golden Prince down.

But when it did, he expected to feel something.

He didn't. His own apathy frightened him.

He'd no further reason to tarry. He had business elsewhere. He turned from the vision of the desert.

Then he did feel something.

An electric hum that started in his spine.

He recognized that.

Mjolnir had answered her master's summons.

Snarling, he tore away from it. The Destroyer would have to be enough for Thor. Thor knew the lie. Thor would come.

He had had little time, but what little he had was cut down by half.

Everything was spinning out of his hands and he'd tried frantically to right it, to no avail.

He'd opened the portal and allowed in the Giants.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Laufey was dead.

Dead by a son of Odin.

Odin had to understand.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He had only just slain the Jotun king. _Patricide, really_. _Treason._ Frigga had gathered herself from the floor. She'd flung about and run to him, afraid, not knowing how such an enemy could have come into the very sanctum of the palace itself. She'd put out her arms like a frightened child and he'd steadied her. She'd looked so small and so frightened. She'd looked to him to protect her. She didn't for one moment suspect that it was only due to his agency that the enemy had come to be there. She knew only that he had stopped them.

He played the part. A toneless actor. A puppet _wishing_ for life.

And then Thor had come.

He couldn't take his eyes off of him.

Systematically, the prince – her one _true_ son – had begun exposing what lies he knew, demanding their answer.

" _I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all_. _"_

He remembered the look of confusion – of dawning horror – on the face of the queen and how he'd fled away.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to destroy Jotunheim."

That would be forever how she remembered him.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Thor begged him to stop, but he could never stop. He would never recover. Laufey was dead and Jotunheim would seek vengeance. He hadn't time to right it. Hadn't time to tell them, to establish a foothold on their realm. They didn't know _how_ their king had died. They didn't know where.

 _Laufey's son._

He wanted to die. He wanted Thor to die before he could _know_. He wanted Thor to kill him.

Father was there. How Odin had come, he didn't know. The numbness was gone – the numbness of an explosion – leaving no more than a shrieking ring in his ears. It was the Bifrost. The Bifrost broken and shattered. But how? It was supposed to be unbreakable…Thor. Thor had broken it. But it was his fault. Somehow, all of this was his own doing, his own failing…He'd misjudged… Norns… _Monster_ …

Everything was wrong.

Hanging from the end of Gungnir, it occurred to him how apt the situation was. Hadn't this always been the way of it? He was held only to the past he'd known by the barest thread. By lies exposed, by love promised and lost. He'd had a final chance to prove himself, and he had failed.

He looked up what seemed an incalculable distance to his father.

Not his father. He'd killed his father.

They would kill him and he deserved no less. Wanted – no less.

"I could have done it, Father. For you. For all of us."

But there was no answer for that besides the one that came.

"No, Loki."

And, it suddenly occurred to him, that that was how it should be.

They would kill him. His father and his brother. They would kill him. They would be forced to – he'd forced them. _He_ had forced this play. They would kill him. And if not, it would be another on some barren realm they'd cast him to, knowing the certainty of the thing but lacking the strength of heart to bring the blow themselves. Frigga would plead with them to stop, and she would make Odin allow her to say goodbye.

Or she would not. Perhaps she would not care.

He was held to them only by his own grip on the smooth, gold shaft of the spear. His father's spear. His father…

Such a fragile thing…

 _I will die_. He thought, all with an appalling calm.

Peace.

Cessation, at the very least.

Murderer. Traitor. Monster.

 _I will die._

 _If not by my own hand, then that of another_.

 _Well._

 _Then let it be mine_.

And the decision made.

 _That,_ at least – of _every_ thing – he could control.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Water roared up, cold – bitingly cold and stronger than anything he'd faced before. It swept him away, dashed all the air out of him and left him gasping, choking, laughing – almost.

It was all gone.

Falling and falling through the fierce power of the water. Falling and falling and always pulled by the rush. Torn from everything he'd known. Torn – if his luck would hold just _one more time_ – from the embrace of life itself. Bidden ever to walk the paths of the dead. Bidden to traipse the Helway… Torn, smashed…

But it never ended. The water, always cold. Always strong. Tearing and crushing and falling and falling and falling and above the roar of the torrent, the sound of gulls. It had been there some time, but only now he realized it. Gulls. Screaming and wheeling somewhere above the water.

If _only_ he could drown.

He'd already drowned, why was it he couldn't just _die_?

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He'd thought then to be embraced by Lady Death and relieved of the agonies supplied by living.

He'd laugh at that sometime in the future.

Fate was a cruel thing.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **So. Saw 'Ragnarok' yesterday.**

 **And the more I think about it, the more I love it, honestly. Most people I talked to were horrified, and I can see why, but… But.**

 **Anybody who wants more from me on that – not only do I not want to spoil the movie, I don't want to misuse my space here – you know where to find me. Those of you who have already asked me, I should be getting to writing down my thesis later this week and I'll PM it to you ;)**

 **Anyways. Here we are.**

 **Just one quick note on this chapter because I LOVE it. The script does Laufey's death scene a little differently. They make it look like Thor might have gotten there in time to JUST save Odin, but then they reveal that it's Loki. Shock and awe. And there are two Jotun guards still alive at that point. They both attack Loki and he gets one, but the other would have gotten him…**

 **If Frigga hadn't gotten that one from behind.**

 **HOW COULD THEY NOT HAVE LEFT THAT IN THE MOVIE?**

 **I didn't know how to work that in and maintain the desperation of tone I was going for (and hope I achieved) but I couldn't leave that fact unknown.**

 **And the next few chapters…actually, the next** _ **ten**_ **chapters or so of this…are some of my favorites in this fic. I flatter myself by thinking they become somewhat more unique as they go. (They don't start that way. Give me until chapter 10 at least before you make up your mind) I leave you to be the judge. I'm** _ **slightly**_ **biased.**


	8. Chapter 8

The Void, by definition, was emptiness. Empty as nothing was empty, and full as only it could be.

He shouldn't have survived in any form at all, much less a physical one.

The Void crushed and tore and screamed in soundless voices. It was so dense that there was no light and not even blackness remained. It burst into shrieking colors that stabbed.

There was nothing. No air to breathe, no surface on which to land, no end to be wished for. Only himself, dragged through it by the tear caused by the shattered remains of the Bifrost.

He felt every particle of the Void about him and he knew with what little of his mind was left him that he should be dead.

He'd wanted to die.

He'd fallen forever until he felt that he'd never fallen at all.

It went on until nothing else had ever been.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Then it ended.

A hand plucked him out of the Void.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He knew he had a body because it was broken.

He knew he had a mind because it flashed in an agony of colors and light and an endless whorl of chittering memories that _couldn't_ be real. Not even here.

He'd thought he'd known what pain was.

He'd thought he'd known what it was to be unmade.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

It was an Age before he found himself, half-healed on stone that had crumbled under the force of his landing. The stars pin wheeled before his eyes until he thought he might be sick and he closed them.

Then he knew he would be sick.

He discovered that he could move, because he had to have done so to be staring at the blood that gushed out of his mouth and pooled on the grey stone.

Panting, his fingers scraped against the surface. Fragments drove their points under his nails. His head spun and tried to breathe through the spams that wanted to turn him inside out.

Finally, it had passed and he collapsed bonelessly onto ground. His mind freed to note it, he felt every movement as a spear driven home. His breaths came erratically through shut teeth. They bubbled in the back of his throat.

Then he began to cough. Awful and wet, the movements shook his entire body. Light flashed red and white behind his eyes and only faded for moments to merciful black. And then fluid came up.

The arm that had been supporting him give out and he dropped against the stone.

He'd been broken to a thousand pieces, and his bones itched to reform themselves.

Gasping, he knew for one lucid moment that he should never have survived.

After a time, his mind fled him once more.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **Now, not that it has anything to do with** _ **this**_ **story** _ **now**_ **, and no spoilers, but I've heard a lot of people were really surprised at certain aspects of Loki's character in 'Ragnarok', specifically after his role in 'The Dark World'.**

 **But can I just point out one thing? His mother – the woman who knew him and loved him better than anybody else – brought him a number of things to make his stay in the dungeons more comfortable. Most of those things made practical sense, such as: a chair, a table, water, books…**

 **And a full-length mirror.**

 **Just sayin.**


	9. Chapter 9

"Thor!"

The water was rising by the instant, one moment about his hips, the next, biting cold and swirling, climbing to his chest.

Thor was casting about, brows pulled down, mouth set and furious. He threw the enchantress, who stood still on the far side of the water, a look that could have leveled cities. She was singing to bring up the flood, arms flung above her head and the flying wind tearing through her hair. Thor threw out an arm and caught Loki's shoulder.

"Hold on to me!"

Spitting water out of his mouth he locked his arms about his brother's shoulder only just as the torrent would have swept him from his feet. Stronger and taller, Thor was yet standing, but not for long. Roaring in fury he threw up an arm and caught the branch of a slender tree overhanging the flood.

So slender… It wouldn't hold for long… Already the branch was bending…

But then Father was there. How he'd come, Loki didn't know. The singing was gone, leaving no more than a shrieking ringing in his ears. The enchantress was vanished or dealt with between one heartbeat and the next. The tree was gone and somehow it was night and he no longer had Thor. His hold on his brother's thick shoulders had slipped and he'd dropped to the end of a long vine – a vine? – No – Gungnir. Father must have cast it to Thor… And the river was gone. It was the Bifrost. The Bifrost broken and shattered. But how? The Bifrost was supposed to be unbreakable…Thor. Thor had broken it. But it was Loki's fault. Somehow, all of this was his own doing, his own failing…He'd misjudged… Norns… _Monster_ …

Everything was wrong.

He looked up what seemed an incalculable distance to his father – No, not his father. He'd killed his father.

But he hadn't! He'd stopped…He was held to them only by his own grip on the smooth gold shaft of the spear. His father's spear. His father…

Such a fragile thing…

Water roared up, cold – bitingly cold and stronger than anything he'd faced before. It swept him away, dashed all the air out of him and left him gasping, choking, laughing.

It was all gone.

Falling and falling through the fierce power of the water. Falling and falling and always pulled by the rush. Torn from everything he'd known.

But it never ended. The water, always cold. Always strong. Tearing and crushing and falling and falling and falling and above the roar of the torrent, the sound of gulls. It had been there some time, but only now he realized it. Gulls. Screaming and wheeling somewhere above the water.

The gulls were wheeling closer, screaming, crying, with human voices. Then, all of a sudden like a dash in the face he'd woken.

He starred at the grey of the stone beneath him. His body vibrated with tiny pains that all but overwhelmed him by their very number. Trying to ground himself, he drew a deep breath. The fire in his lungs flared and, hissing, he stilled.

He tried to rise. The movement was difficult, but possible. He knew he couldn't stand.

Stars and galaxies swirled in the darkness beyond.

There was a great deal of blood amid the broken stone where he'd lain. To the best of what search he could manage, his skin was unbroken. It was only that everything else of him had shattered.

"It's…healing me?"

The voice sounded in his head, as near as though there were someone beside him who had spoken. Leaning his head back against the stone, he pressed his eyes shut.

The child who had spoken was far away and long ago. He was sitting in a tangled nest of bed linens, his back very straight and his eyes very bright as he held out his arm. His mother was sitting on a stool beside the bed, ministering to a break that was healing exceptionally fast in the offered limb.

The child was often sick, or injured. He knew how it usually went. But this time was different. The magic – like that his mother possessed – had come free in his blood. His mother spoke of little else these days. He liked to hear her, but he did not understand much of what it was she told him. And he did not understand what was happening this time, with his arm.

Looking down, he saw the pink line in his skin where the bone had cut through. It had been angry and red only yesterday. This morning, it had not hurt so much, and when his mother had unwrapped it (his mother was the only one who touched his wounds anymore. The medicine-woman could look if Mother was nearby, but she frightened him, and when she touched him he would cry.) a tiny, silvery-green light had been playing over it, like a curious butterfly.

"Yes," she said, and her eyes were very happy, "You have a very special magic, Loki," she promised, "It wants to protect you."

The memory drew taught and white behind his eyes, then crashed into a thousand sounds and colors. He remembered. He remembered everything. He knew how he'd come here.

Catching his breath he started coughing again. Stars popped and flashed in his eyes and his head spun. He tried to move to make it stop. Then the coughing turned to something else.

The sobs were every bit as wrenching as the coughing had been. They sent liquid fire shooting up from his lungs through to his very fingertips.

It all gave out to blackness,

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **The beginning of the dream is from a myth where Thor and Loki are wandering around in Jotunheim and a giant's daughters are all trying to kill them.**

 **One of them attempts to drown them. They only live because there's a Mountain Ash (a tree believed by Medieval people to repel witches) leaning over the river and Thor catches hold of it.**


	10. Chapter 10

**It's been a little while since last chapter. Maybe a week? Idk. Loki doesn't know, and he doesn't care, so, for out intents and purposes here, it doesn't matter.**

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Breath dragged into his lungs as he shot to the surface of his dreaming and into the desolate night.

His throat ached and his chest would not rise.

There were the sounds of the others around him. Sleeping murmurs and deep breathing. All of them in a press of dirty, limp bodies like a mass grave.

He looked at them in the dark, his heartbeat aching in his chest. He couldn't be here anymore.

Pushing himself to his feet all in one smooth movement he lurched over the bodies. His hand shook where it was, white and skeletal against the dark stuff of the doorframe, but he didn't stay to look at it. He flung himself out into the biting cold of the dark.

The cold drove at his skin, cutting through his clothes. He hadn't more than that he'd had on his person when he fell. All that he gained was by the skill of his own hands. He conjured what gold he need provide that he not be driven out of the hovel in which he slept, and as little more as he might.

His eyes burned and he locked his teeth, putting his head down and driving himself forward.

He'd dreamed his mother again. Dreamed himself come home. Dreamed her shock, and her quick rising from her chair. She'd come to him, where he'd stood, shaking, choking on the words he'd forgotten to say.

"Loki," she'd said, wonder in her eyes, "You've come back,"

The words would not leave his mouth, and she'd put out her arms.

It was only as he'd fallen against her that he'd felt the knife.

And then he had heard her laughing.

And he'd woken.

The sound dove about his head. It fluttered black wings in his ears until they rang with it. Until it felt as though they would bleed. It sent him out into the streets because he couldn't stay there any longer. He couldn't be in that press of flesh in the dark.

But he knew why he stayed there. He lacked the strength to travel again.

He'd woken on that rock where he'd landed. He'd slept, and again he'd woken.

And his head had been clearer then.

He was too weak to stand. He drove himself to his feet. Stone spun under him and the stars above. He could hear nothing over the screaming of his bones.

He'd reached. His vision popped until it ran black and cold and depthless. He pushed farther. Grasping, he found a solid thing. And he'd latched to it.

He would not remain on that rock. If he was to be denied death, he would continue elsewhere.

And elsewhere he had gone.

Days he had endured in this place where he had come. He made no attempt to count them.

He did not hide himself from the Gatekeeper. Heimdal could not find him, he knew. Heimdal saw nothing. And should Asgard come against all odds to collect and kill him, so much the better. Life held nothing for him.

His breath was thick and heavy, even with only his walking, and sometimes, as he went, the cold gave out and he burned.

He had not healed from his fall. Had given himself neither the time nor the care it necessitated. And he would not.

He was thinking of his brother, and trying not to. He had no brother. Not anymore.

He was not watching where it was he walked, not that it mattered in this cess-den beyond the Nine where he had come. What more had Fate to take from him?

He did not see them until it was too late.

He fought them.

But he cared little.

And it came as small surprise to him when they took him.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **I'm gonna have to take a slight breather here. Just a few days. I got side-tracked by writing a one-shot that I had hoped I could finish while keeping up with these. Turns out my life is too busy for that.**

 **Stay posted for my treatise on 'Ragnarok' in a day or two, and more of this when that's over ;)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry 'bout the wait.**

 **Might be a leeeetle irregular from here on out. But we'll see what we'll see.**

 **I know that I'm not posting anything tomorrow – holiday and all. And Friday I have to launch another project (in the Avengers fandom. So excited!). So don't expect anything here until Saturday.**

 **By then I should have had time to catch up.**

 **Operative word being 'should'.**

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He was falling, falling, dropping farther and farther through the swirling madness of color and sound. It was soft to his touch and sucking and it pulled. It caught against his skin and dragged to pull him inside of it until he could not breathe. It coated his lungs. He couldn't breathe.

Abruptly he woke.

The first thing that assailed him was the sound. Thick, guttural laughing somewhere nearly. The clatter of feet and goods. The constant cackle and shriek of voices, haggling over prices, demanding, mocking. Boisterous and harsh. It rattled in his head, echoing.

And heat, radiating heat. The air was thick and it stank.

He closed his eyes to shut it out. Shut out the colors. They were bright, garish, smeared and knotted and they stabbed in his eyes. There were others…a press of bodies…

His hand dropped suddenly off of his knee and he caught his breathe.

Dust. Reddish dust.

He was so tired. He would lift his arm to its old place, but it felt too far from him, too heavy for such a task.

Rough, worn wood was against the fingers of his other hand. It pressed into his face. The grooves pricked at his skin.

The smell of the wood and the dust, and the refuse of the city, the smell coming from the multitudinous creatures unlike most he'd seen in the worlds he'd known, rose up from the ground in a hot, grey wave. Breathing, he shuddered, and his hand spasmed against the wood.

He was sitting on the ground with his knees before him, slumped against the wooden railing of some sort of enclosure. He'd seen it, at one point. He knew what it looked like. The images of the place, the creatures, flashed in his mind like as in a febrile nightmare.

The ones who had found him when he walked at night, they'd taken him. And they'd brought him here.

There was little he could recall of that journey. Flickering lights along the walls of dark corridors made of metal that was burning cold to his skin, gruff voices barking orders and rowdy laugher, a sick, jerking start and stop of movement. Rough hands had moved him and abrasive voices that reverberated in his skull, asking and answering in words he knew but could no longer follow.

Fever devoured him from within.

If time was any longer, it wanted nothing more to do with him. There were moments when he could believe that he'd existed in this place for eons untold. That there had never been a time before, any more than there would be a time after.

A hand jerked him back just as he was slipping away again, into the suffocating folds of what lay beyond. It grasped him by his chin and jarred him.

Gasping, he came to, lifting a hand instinctively to bat the attacker away, snarling.

"…sick." The words bubbled and swelled above his head and they meant little or nothing to him. "My master can't be expected to pay full price for that…"

"No, but see? Look what wounds he's taken already…a luxury…so rare, that surely…"

He fell into and out of lucidity. He was barely aware of it when he was sold.

It came to him in flashes.

The clatter of coins falling from hand to hand.

Hands that hauled him up from the wall, drove him forward, pushing him by a hand knotted in the back of his shirt.

Stumbling on his feet.

Breath dragging hot in his throat, in and out of the rasp in his chest.


	12. Chapter 12

**Let me just tell you right now – our boy is not doing well.**

 **As if you needed** _ **that**_ **spelled out for you ;)**

 **And I promise there's something more like "action" or "plot" next chapter. Promise.**

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

There was ice.

Ice and stone in the darkness, and battle raged all about him.

A shape- there, on the ground below in the fray, huge and golden – called strangely for his attention. But it wouldn't pay to forget where he was. Panting, he spun and met the next attacker who had leapt down onto the ledge behind him. Parry, feint, slip under an up-flung arm and the man had tumbled over the side and into the surge of bodies below.

Cast a look back down upon the golden one. That one fascinated him with a knowing sort of dread that he could not place. Then the figure spun and Loki jerked involuntarily back.

 _Odin._

The golden figure caught sight of him, went to move on, then turned quickly back, face contorted in a sudden snarl of recognition.

"You!" it roared.

He was a warrior. He'd faced the greatest threats the realms had to offer. But the fear that blossomed suddenly in his chest was more than any he'd yet known. He'd scrabbled back to the cliff-side behind him and turned to flee, to loose himself in the fight where the golden figure of the AllFather would never be able to find him. But Odin was faster. The image of the man flickered to life directly before him and Loki fell back, looking desperately to the man's old place in the fray – but no, the place was empty, already filling with the struggling bodies of men and – giants. Suddenly it became clear to him that their opponents were giants. Blue skinned and hulking, writhing and huge against their small, valiant, golden antagonists. Jotunheim. They were in Jotunheim. And the man before him was no simulacra.

He was out of time –

Odin was upon him with his great war spear and it was all Loki could do to hold him off. The man was huge and fiercely strong. Loki had seen him in battle, but never like this. Never against him.

Odin was faster than he. All of Thor's strength and more than his own speed, every trick preemptively blocked. The rocks slid under his boot and before he had time even to register that the ground rushed up and slammed shatteringly into his back. The sky cracked with lightning and for a dizzy moment he couldn't tell if it was Thor's or from the impact of his own head on the ground.

Gungnir was levelled with his throat, steady for the blow, hovering to make him beg.

But the blow did not fall. The spear moved back to allow him movement, poised at his chest.

Fighting back the sudden nausea, he pushed up onto one elbow, lifted a hand to wipe away the stars. Then he finally looked up at his father.

"Why?" his voice rasped and he had to suck a quick breath to keep back the blackness that swirled on the edges of his sight.

The AllFather's expression did not waver. "You are a monster."

Somehow, horror rising like bile, his eyes travelled down his arm to his hand and the skin was dark. Blue-black. Thick and hard. The nails black. He'd been sure he was holding his knives, but in both of his hands there was nothing but a spike of ice that grew directly from his skin. A form of Jotnar-magic that he was sure he'd never learned. His hand jerked open as though of its own and the shard slipped away from him, skidding on the stone.

He was breathing too fast and his breath made no steam in the air.

The ground did not feel _cold._

"I –" he cast his eyes up helplessly, "I was your son,"

The single blue eye never wavered. Not for a moment.

He closed his eyes, knowing what would come then and weary with all the weight of the worlds he wished it done already.

"No, Loki."


	13. Chapter 13

The next time he woke, the air was more still. He was within some room. He frowned.

There were sounds, somewhere beyond his immediate sight. Soft, intentional noise as of a lone being at work.

"Where am I?" he rasped.

The air was cooler, and cleaner. It didn't burn in his lungs.

The sounds stopped, and a small creature came up beside him. It looked at him through wide, unfocussed eyes.

Loki starred at it.

For a long time, they did nothing more than look at each other.

Then it spoke in a voice unlike any Loki had ever heard before. Brokenly, it said, "Lord be glad you live. Not many time," it bobbed its odd head, "Not many time."

Without another word, it shuffled away.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He was taken, not so long after that, to another place. Hauled by the arm by a very large creature built like a man.

He had been fed things that the strange little creatures told him would make him strong. When he told them he did not want it, they became quiet. They looked at each other, and at him like they were afraid. What open wounds he had were healed by the time he woke, and his fever had broken.

The small creatures moved out of the way of the large one when it came. It led him through various workings to something that was little more than a pen inhabited by hulking, snarling things that might once have been men. Cuffs of a dark, rough metal were fused to his wrists and when the gate clanged to behind him a flickering rope of white light sputtered along all its joining poles.

The thing that had brought him took him by the back of the neck and drove him sharply against the wall.

Flame stabbed through his wrists and his breath snagged in his throat.

"Cross that line," the thing hissed, "And it'll be worse yet."

It threw him to the ground and he heard the gate shut behind it.

The others entrapped with him came closer. They watched him, puzzled, wary. He was less than half the size of any of them, and he was weak. He knew how things of this sort went.

He staggered up from his knees.

They watched him, and he did not look at them again. They parted for him as he walked, this time.

His head spinning, he went to the back where there was a wall, and a low bench. He sank down onto it. Laughing to himself, low in his throat, he sagged against the cement wall, to wait.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **So, Loki has no idea where he is, and no idea what's going on. But Thanos is not the one who bought him. Not yet. I've been imagining something like Ravagers/spacey-gang-lords so far.**

 **And before anybody gets any ideas, this is not Sakaar either. When I started writing this, I had not so much as seen the previews for 'Ragnarok'. I have not re-worked this fic to accommodate anything pertaining to that movie.**

 **Loki's still sick, still healing, and he doesn't want to be alive. He doesn't much care what happens next, but he doesn't expect it to be good.**

 **Muhaha.**


	14. Chapter 14

He woke again, lying flat on his stomach, in a place that was quiet. It was dim in that place, and there was only, from far away, the sound of water.

He remembered, as he woke, in quick, bright flashes. Days had gone by since he had come to the pen. Or he assumed they had.

For a moment, he could not understand how he had come to leave it.

He remembered the heat, then, and the breath and sweat of a fight in the dark.

Returning to those moments, he winced.

He was so _tired_. There had been too many of them, and they knew what small area they were allowed better than he.

Even at his best he would have been hard-pressed against those odds.

He cared not to show them his power.

He cared little to defend himself.

What they wanted, eventually, they took. And he feigned unconsciousness until, finally, it claimed him.

He recalled coming back to himself, pushing his body up from the ground. Recalled the blood about him, running coldly from his back. He'd remembered the quick downward slice of a blade across the skin of his shoulder and the driving in of a cold stab beneath, under the flat of the bone. He remembered the gush of blood that he'd felt across his back. He had not screamed.

Remembered looking at the blood on his hand, black in the dark and sudden solitude, and the cold rush that ran all over him like a wave as he slid under it again.

Very foggy, in the nearest, most chaotic time, he remembered falling. There was shouting from someone who must have been supporting him because he recalled falling against a body, and there was something being forced into his mouth.

He knew he had wanted to scream at the pain of the liquid that touched his throat, but he wasn't sure that he had.

Behind him, and near, in the present time, he heard the quick _ting_ of metal on stone, and that brought his mind back to the present. Something cold touched him, something that burned in his wound. He drew a breath through his teeth and opened his eyes.

The pain did much to steady him.

He raised his head. "Where am I?" he asked, watching the solidity of the thing on which he lay. His head spun and he closed his eyes against it.

There was a gentle sound of movement behind him, and no sound of answer, so he turned his head. The female was white as snow, bound in a strange grey dress. Placidly, she did not raise her eyes from her task. A sharp pain flashed at his movement, and touching the bone along his cheek with the tips of long, cold fingers, she 'tsk-tsked' that he ought not move and pressed him back.

"In a place for healing," she purred. "Not to be frightened."

The salve she put on him burned anew as she resumed her work, and he breathed thickly through it.

"Why."

There was, again, a long pause before her strange, flute-like voice answered him, "Your holder makes currency on the show. You must thrive before combat. You comprehend?"

His head throbbed, but it was clearer than it had been. He was returning to himself. He could feel it in his blood. Could feel it in the swift, flickering movement of his thought. He was more himself than he had been since he'd gone from Asgard.

"Such lengths," he gave a little gasp as she pressed some binding or cloth against the wound, "for something only to be slaughtered in sport."

It took him a moment to realize that she had stopped and she had come around, by his head. He raised his face to look into her weird, flat eyes. Void of life and color.

"You are of further worth than that," she said, finally, "You are cherished exceedingly by your master. He crushed the ones damaged you. Be cheered."

She moved around behind him, clattering her things together, gently, moving them away from him to a little table in the far side of the room and a cupboard that stood above.

"And what," he asked, finally, beginning to feel something beyond the throbbing of his head and his back, beginning to see more clearly his arms on the surface beneath him. He raised his head to watch her, "does he prize me for?"

She was gathering things in her arms, making for the door. She did not turn around. "Asgardians are cherished always," she said as she left him. "They are so rare in coming to our hands. Make for good show."

For a long moment, he only watched the place where she had gone out. Then he began to laugh. He dropped his head down on his arm and laughed until the tears ran down his face.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **Again, not Sakaar, not the GrandMaster. Something else. (I was envisioning something Guardians of the Galaxy/Star Wars-esque this whole time, but go with it where you will).**


	15. Chapter 15

**Not only is this a longer chapter for you guys ;) it's probably my favorite.**

 **The dialogue at the end was what made me revise this entire thing and re-write it.**

 **Just – again – real quick – I hadn't seen any footage from 'Ragnarok' before I came up with this.**

 **So, here we go. I hope you like it as much as I do.**

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He was kept apart from the others, after that, nursed in the strange, quiet rooms by female creatures that he could not tell apart. Soon enough, he stopped wondering and he stopped watching. They dressed his wound, they poured foul-tasting things down his throat - by force if he would not take the drink willingly.

But he had little will, yet, to argue. There didn't seem to be much point. He only fought them on it once, and mainly only to see what they'd do.

He slept a good portion of the time, until the dreams began to come again.

Dreams of falling. Dreams of dying.

He woke afraid, and he wanted death.

He would bait his keepers and perhaps, they would grow tired of him. Perhaps they would allow him to die.

He refused sleep, refused food. Refused what medicines they would give him.

They did not punish. But the white females that looked after him tipped their heads to one side, and their faces were very, very blank.

Then, after days of this, the white female did not come. Instead, it was a smaller creature, with a face not unlike those of the Southern Van, save for its color, and the antennae on her forehead.

"What," he rasped. He was not in the habit of speaking to his caretakers. They so rarely answered him, "are you?"

"I'm here to help," she told him, in a voice that sounded like floating.

She came across the room and she sat beside him.

It was nearer than he would have liked, but he was weary beyond swift movement. He only turned his head away to stare at the white clay walls.

"If you will only let me help you," she crooned, "All this can be so much easier,"

Her hand lighted on his arm. Cold and feather soft, but there was a spark beneath it and as he turned his head he saw the ends of her antennae flicker to sudden light.

Her eyes went wide and, dragging in an agonized breath, she gripped his arm.

"You want to die," she whispered, "Your father…Oh," she gripped him harder with each realization, "not your… _Oh_ ,"

Realization shot through him like a cold dash of water.

"Away from me!" he flung her off of him, and the move was so abrupt and so violent that it flung her from him, barely catching herself without injury against the wall.

The light went out of her as she lost contact with him.

"You," he panted, "would _dare_ …" The ground spun unsteadily under his feet.

Before he could reorient himself from the sudden movement, the telepath had launched herself to her feet again and her hands were on either side of his face, her eyes boring into his.

 _Sleep._

When he woke, she was sitting placidly on a stool against the far wall. The white female had returned. Seeing him awake, she offered him the drink again.

He saw the telepath rise, coming as though to touch him.

"No," he told the white creature, "Not again. I want none of her."

The white one watched him for one long moment, then turned slowly to the telepath, and nodded her swathed head.

The telepath gave a bow of assent, and left.

Bitterly, Loki took the draught.

And, soon enough, they told him he was healed.

He didn't pay much attention as a new kind of creature came. They gave him weapons and they took him to a place he had not yet seen. A city. Of a sort. It blurred with all the others. Twisting and moving and garishly colored. The smell and the noise of all the creatures that travelled through them sickened him.

The place they came to was a squalid kind of tavern, sprawling and low to the ground. Lights flashed and chattering scum-of-the-Nine jammed the doorways.

All-but naked females of perhaps twelve separate species danced on tables in the multi-colored lights within for the ones who watched, slavering below, nursing drinks they had forgotten in the heat of the moment.

That it should be such a place as this.

He had been a prince. A king, even, if only briefly.

For a moment, his pride rebelled, repulsed. But only for one moment. Then his despondence took its place, and it choked out the quick flame of revulsion.

Several fights went before his. He barely watched.

They took place in a thinly marked ring, surrounded by jostling creatures who bayed for blood and shouted their bets above the roar of the crowd.

Some of the fighters were trained. Some were not. It appeared that they came from many masters. Some wanted to fight. Some were unprepared. One beside him vomited on his own feet after a spray of blood landed on him.

His chin in his hand, Loki gave no visible sign that he noticed.

Victors, he noted, were expected to bring their opponent to his knees, then wait for a signal, at which, the vanquished was to be butchered for the pleasure of the masses.

It seemed simple enough.

He was given order to rise and pushed into the ring. Blood has soaked into the substance on the floor, coloring it various shades of red and black. Its smell rose thick on the heated air above the ring, copper and sharp.

His opponent was huge, and Loki had seem him fight before. He smiled grimly.

His end was sure.

But the creature prolonged it. It teased him. Batting and dancing in a manner Loki had not seen used against the others.

And the longer it went on, the more indignant he became.

He was a King. And this creature would toy with him?

Finally, it was enough.

Summoning every power in his reach he screamed, throwing the creature back. Silvery-teal fire flared around the confines of the ring. It felt cold as it evaporated from his hands.

The crowd pressed back and hung, suspended, quiet, watching, stunned.

Energy unlike any he'd accessed in so long fluttered up from his fingertips.

He had _missed_ this.

The creature recovered, disgust showing quickly on his face before he bellowed, balling huge fists and charging forward.

Loki met him in the center of the ring.

When it was over, Loki turned, panting, to view the spectators.

They watched with their breaths caught and their eyes huge in their faces. Then murmured gently. They gave the sign to kill. The fight had pleased them.

Giving a derisive breathe, Loki cast his knives to the ground.

The murmurs rose, threat roiling beneath the veneer of shock.

He caught the clasp about his neck and tore it free, baring the skin of his throat.

The murmur was rising to a roar.

Grimly, Loki smiled. Better that it should be like this. A death of his own choosing.

Before any blow could be dealt him, he was dragged away.

"You've been bought,"

He was told.

"You'll wait."

The creature looked significantly at the cuffs on Loki's wrists, at the wires that ran about the establishment, then met his eyes.

Loki tipped his chin back to meet the look and gave him a thin smile. "I understand," he said.

Grunting, the thing released his arm, and then it left him.

This new agitation, freed within the ring, writhed in his chest. He could do nothing with it, now. He had only to wait until his buyer had come.

To be refused death again when she had been so near.

When the female behind the bar asked him if he would have something, he gave a sharp, if disinterested nod. She asked him nothing more but came back moments later with a small glass, full of something starkly blue. He didn't ask what it was or thank her, and she didn't wait for either.

It wasn't anything he recognized and he didn't really taste it. It had very little in it that could impair him, which was very nearly a disappointment.

He noticed the things going on around him, the dancing and the little fights. The laughing and jostling. He paid mind to none of it.

Thoughts of Thor surfaced in his mind, as they so often did in unguarded moments. He trained his thoughts to a blank. He needed little by way of memory, now.

When his glass was empty the female replaced it. He took perhaps three before two others caught his eye. Both coming through a door. It must've been the way by which he'd been brought, but he'd paid it so little heed at the time that he hardly recognized it. Vaguely, he knew the two females from among the crowd of spectators. They'd stood on the side, the one a little before the other, as though keeping her back or perhaps protecting her.

He'd noticed it, because it had been a posture he'd recognized. And that recognition nettled him.

The dominant female was taller. The lights shone oddly on her skin, which was green, and loose, dark curls hung over her shoulders. She moved with a lithe, feminine grace, and perhaps, with time for a few more drinks, he might have even begun to find her attractive.

Laughing to himself, he turned away.

She'd found him.

Her movements were sloppy. Even the dullest drunk here could tell she had been looking for him.

The one behind her was smaller, sullen, and her movements jerked. Her jaw was tight. Taking the other's arm in one silver-blue hand she hissed, "You _took_ the wrong _one_."

The other's voice was lower, but Loki could still make it out over the din, "It was _my_ decision."

"It was _my job_ –"

"You failed," the green one stopped her. "I was sent to do what you couldn't. And _you_ were sent to learn, from _me_."

The smaller one scowled, "Idiot," she mumbled.

" _I_ certainly didn't want to drag you along."

Putting her head back, the last speaker came forward through the crowd. Slipping behind one of those nearby, she claimed the place beside him and lifted herself backwards onto the stool.

He pretended not to notice her.

The other stood nearly behind her. Still sullen.

The female, whose skin was a soft green, signaled something to the one behind the bar, then, clearing her throat she said, "What you did in the ring," she took a glass from the woman, "That was impressive." She glanced at him, "I've never seen anything like it."

The quick look from under her lashes might have been beguiling to one of her own kind, but Loki found it a bit sickening. Giving a soft laugh he looked at her. "Am I to understand that you are the cause of my release? Things were just starting to get interesting."

She swallowed. "They were going to kill you."

Loki looked at her, then emptied his glass and set it on the bar.

"What do they call you?" she asked.

"Loki," his smile had too many teeth, "of Asgard." He lifted his newly filled glass. The taste bit a little at his tongue. "And you?"

"Gamora." She shifted on her stool, wrapping one knee over the other, shifting just closer to him. "Almost no one comes here from your planet."

He flicked his eyes at the far wall. "Can't imagine why."

The silver-blue female laughed, coming up on his other side. "Well, at least he's got a sense of humor," she ground. Her voice was low and oddly…mechanized.

Loki didn't offer her so much as a glance in her direction.

She turned hard eyes on Gamora, "Aren't you going to introduce me, _Sister_?"

Gamora closed her eyes, "Nebula," she sighed. The…cyborg, Loki decided, taxed her sister greatly. Loki found that amusing. "Go back and…keep watch, or," she brushed a hand across her face, "something."

Nebula scoffed, but she turned saucily about and went to stand a few, sulky paces behind them, examining her nails in the flickering light.

Laughing to himself, just barely, Loki watched a drunk sway willfully toward Nebula and how fiercely she batted him off.

"So," he looked at Gamora, swallowing his quick amusement, "Which one of you is adopted?"

Gamora didn't open her eyes. She sighed. "Look," she said, laying one hand, palm down on the bar. "I acquired you from your holder for a purpose."

"I assumed as much."

She turned on him and her eyes flashed a little. "We were sent to recruit Kepox –"

He frowned.

"The one you…" she gestured loosely with one hand as she lifted her glass.

"Ah," he nodded. "Go on."

She set the tumbler back. "But I think _you_ could be…better suited to our needs."

"So," he smiled. He set his glass down with a cold little _ting_ on the bar. "You've decided to recruit me, instead of this…other. Whoever your employer is," he looked at her, "he's unlikely to be pleased with your selection."

She regarded at him for a long moment, calculation in her eyes.

Her head tipped just a little.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she asked, abruptly.

Loki looked at her, straight-on for the first time.

He narrowed his eyes.

Then, dropping his head, he gave a soft laugh.

Nebula's restless pacing brought her nearer them.

"Well?" Gamora demanded, a touch impatient. "They would have killed you if I'd been even a _minute_ slower in buying you."

He raised his head, slowly, conscious of Nebula's coming closer behind him and all the sounds and _smells_ native to establishments like these. He smiled grimly at her. "I sought _death_ ," he said. He emptied his glass a final time and with a sharp flick of his wrist he'd flung it against the wall behind the bar. It shattered.

The barkeep didn't notice.

He fixed his eyes on Gamora again, "And if your employer offers anything less, you can bear him my regrets. I'll take the consequences."

"Oh," Nebula laughed, low and throaty, "Dad's gonna _love_ him."


	16. Chapter 16

The week he spent in the company of the two assassins as they forged their way back to their base was eventful, to say the least. Where they went, bloodshed followed. Between the two of them they had a price on their heads in every province where they set foot.

Loki never remembered much of it.

It was too near to what came next. The nearest memories, were always the first to be lost.

But _that_ , had not happened yet.

He rarely slept during those days. The apathy that had lodged in his throat and forbidden him healing had blossomed into something more. It bloomed out like flame on alcohol-soaked tinder, branching in liquid lines of an all-consuming rage.

"You should sleep," Gamora told him, the fourth night.

Loki struck his blade against the stone in his hands. "I," he told her, "am a god. I need little by way of sleep."

At which Nebula had laughed, "He has no idea," she told Gamora, settling across from her by their fire.

He ignored the both of them.

He was a prince. A king, even. He had been King, of a realm so much greater than these that even its _shadow_ put them to utter disgrace.

Shadows.

He had been lied to, tricked, betrayed and finally cast out as worthless. If they had thought him a threat they would have killed him straight out, not cast him into this ambiguous exile. At least they would have followed him to be sure the Void had done its work. As it was, they didn't even think _that_ of him.

After everything he had done for them, every moment of his life, everything he had suffered, every struggle, every battle, every drop of blood, they tossed him out like a worn garment.

He remembered the soft eyes of his mother. Thor's companionship. Odin's rarely-won pride. All of it a lie. Every moment of his life, they had lied to him.

He tasted lie within his own thoughts. But the taste did not bother him in the light of his new fury.

Holding up the knife, he looked at it in the shifting light of their meager fire.

Briefly, he thought of the one he had slain to obtain it. But only briefly. His mind gravitated to his past.

He had been so young and innocent. So naïve. To believe in love. To trust those who claimed to love him and to want what was best for him.

He was a monster they had tried to tame. What had they thought likely to happen? It was in his very blood – thicker than his magic – envy and hate and vengeance. What had they expected of him? They claimed family, they claimed love. They made him believe it. Made him want it and need it and fight for their acceptance. And when he had fought and wept and bled _everything_ out for them, his last pitiful offering, they had cast him out as if none of it had ever mattered.

And none of it had.

He'd mourned the lie, and now it was gone. He was stronger and none of it would touch him now. He'd been weak and pleading for enough of his life and it had all proved for nothing.

His reflection in the edge of the blade was gaunt and he felt like a skeletal shadow of his former self. But there could be worse things. Skeletal and scarred he was stronger. Fierce and wild he itched to fight. To tear. To wound and kill. He wanted to destroy all of these pathetic, cast-off realms in blood and smoke and move on to those higher, but he could do nothing.

Not yet.

For now, he was void of purpose.

But he could wait. He would endure.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Then that time ended.

A hand plucked him from the Void.


	17. Chapter 17

It didn't happen all at once.

The cyborg had been correct. The one's who had sent them had not wanted a change to their plans. But they re-arranged themselves, doing a little to hide their obvious annoyance.

He was given the illusion. The illusion of choice. Of will.

But all illusions fade, in time.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He had cast himself out, so as to die.

But that was not to be.

A hand plucked him out of the Void.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He knew he had a body because it was broken.

He knew he had a mind because it had been violated.

He'd thought he'd known what pain was.

He'd thought he'd known what it was to be unmade.

His memory shattered until it ran away. Until there was nothing.

He didn't know what a throat, un-torn by screaming, felt like, anymore.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 _You want to be here._

No. No I don't I don't I don't I

 _Then why did you come?_

I wanted to die. I want to die.

 _You do not. You want to be here._

No I don't I want to die I want to die I want to please just let me die please

 _Shh_. _It's not your fault that you came here, is it?_

I want to die I want to

 _Shh. Answer our questions and we can arrange it all. We would treat all who come with the respect they're due. Even those whose coming is trespass. We would have a better understanding of our…guests. Now, Guest. We felt you enter this our realm even before our envoys found you. If you are not here of your will, who is it that you errand for?_

I wasn't sent I fell

 _Fell? Truly fascinating. This our realm was meant to be impregnable. How was it you came so grievously to fall?_

I don't I don't know I don't I want to die

 _Those who knew you fell. If they did not send you, will they hunt you?_

No. No they think me dead they would not come they never came before

 _Did you fall, or were you pushed? Were you pushed? Why else would you not be sought?_

I was driven to fall there was nothing else

 _Driven? Driven for purpose? Driven to unwittingly spy out this my realm?_

No not sent he wanted me to die

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

The titan's laughter, echoing off the inside of his skull, as near him as his heartbeat, was almost enough to drown out his screams.

Almost.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 _Tsk. Tsk. Are we to believe your tales when you so adamantly plead against them?_

Stop

 _You tell us it was not your will to enter our realm, that you were driven. That you will be left to die at our hands. That they wanted no less. And yet you call out to them in the midst of your ravings and your pain. Is it madness, fellow king? Is it?_

Stop please please

 _They lied to you all your life and you expect them to save you now? Know you so little of the World as that? They had use for you, and you exhausted your usefulness. They cast you out. They will never come._

Stop please stop

Not

Not all of it was a lie

 _Of course it was! What was it your "AllFather" claimed? "Bring about peace?" Once you'd struck out on your own course and fouled all his fine plans you were worth nothing to him._

I know I know that I wanted to die

 _And of the others? Your "mother" wanted only peace through her family. What with Odin's fixation on peace and your brother's warmongering what time had she for you? And your brother. What more were you to him than an un-paid thrall._

That's not true

 _They let you die. They cast you out._

The AllFather let me fall.

 _What are his plans to you? Him and his, "None of that matters now" Are you not a more fine prize than that?_

I'm a monster I ought to be dead

 _Shh. What know we of monsters? Before us, we see a king cast out._

Please please let me die

Let me die

 _Death if fair as she is fickle. Catch her as you may._

…

 _Do with him as you will._


	18. Chapter 18

He'd thought he'd known what pain was.

Thought in all his years that, at least once, he'd felt it.

It was nothing.

It was the particle of a drop lost in all of an ocean.

There was nothing more around him, _in_ him, but this.

And he wept.

He dissolved until there was no self left.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He didn't know if they spoke to him anymore.

Didn't know if they were words.

Didn't know anymore if they were his language.

Somewhere he felt that ought to bother him.

He didn't know if a word was his own language. Mother tongue. A thing spoken from birth. And he didn't know.

It was absurd.

He laughed.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

He broke their grip.

Slid out between the cracks.

In the giddiness of his new – albeit partial – freedom, he didn't pause to think how he'd managed it, or whether it was by the design of another.

That thought only occurred to him later.

Had it crossed what remained of his mind then, he wouldn't have known it.

Fragmented as he was, he had no physical contact with the World. But he could see it. He could hunt.

Though he had little luck before he jerked unexpectedly back into himself, he knew the way of it. He laughed through the blood, black in his mouth.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

It wasn't long before he took his chance and broke their grip and fled again.

Midgard.

A presence he recognized. And in his animal-state, he didn't pause to articulate who. Warily, he ventured towards it.

Then a feeling of a place. A place that was not _here_ and that raised the hackles on the back of his neck. But it wasn't anything he recognized. Too fleeting to be caught. Not an attack. Nor was it a person. A thing far underground that did not belong where it was. It cried out in a language he felt he knew, somehow. Or ought to know.

 _What know we of ought._

Shuddering, he drew away.

They were a memory of some word he'd heard before. He was giddy and shaken. It could not reach him here. He told himself it could not reach him.

The presence he'd sensed first, was a who. A person. A mortal he'd seen before, though he couldn't recall when. Nor did it matter. It was not one of the ones that mattered. It was mortal. Instinctively, he disliked it for that. He nearly turned away, to look for that other thing. That _place_. It was infinitely more interesting. But the presence was doing something. It was a man, and it was moving. It was being led down through a labyrinth that wound deeper and deeper beneath the ground with a perplexed look on its face.

Deeper and deeper. Towards the misplaced thing. That _place_.

He followed.

Then the man was pointed down a long hall and abandoned by all but the shade that tracked him.

They wandered farther.

"Dr. Selvig."

The man turned, then caught sight of another. A dark man in a dark suit with a patch covering one eye.

He drew back instinctively against the wall. This one wanted him dead.

No. Not this one. Not yet. This one did not know him. It had been another.

"So you're the man behind all this?" the man the – selvig – went towards the other through the unfaithful light. "It's quite a labyrinth. I was thinking they were taking me down here to kill me."

The selvig laughed.

The other did not.

Which gave selvig pause.

The silence was interesting. He found he'd left the place against the wall.

The _presence_ was near. A thing. A thing misplaced.

It licked at his mind and prodded that he ought to know it.

Finally, the other, the darkly-clad man, stepped forward, hands unobtrusively in his pockets. It was talking to the selvig.

He jerked back to watch it.

"I've been hearing about the New Mexico situation."

A tugging at his gut. As though that was supposed to mean something to him.

"Your work has impressed a lot of people who are much smarter than I am."

The selvig shrugged, "I have a lot to work with."

The misplaced thing was close. It tickled at the back of his neck and he needed to know what.

"The Foster Theory," the selvig kept on superfluously, "a gateway to another dimension. It's unprecedented."

The other tipped his head.

The first faltered again and it was almost funny to see it question itself, "Isn't it?"

"Legend tells us one thing," the darker, more powerful one turned and walked back to the place where the selvig had originally found him. "History, another."

It stopped by a table. On the table was a case.

His heart beat fast and hungry.

"But every now and then," the one-eye continued, "we find something that belongs to both."

Slowly, slowly, the man used his strong hands and flicked the controls, lifting the top of the case back to show a glowing, pulsing, coldly blue thing like a cube.

But it was so much more than that.

"What is it?"

The thing pulsed like a power in his veins and it flushed into him and through him and was gone and back and he was gasping for breath. He remembered. He knew. He _knew_.

"Power, Doctor. If we can figure out how to tap it," the glow of it illuminated both their faces, "maybe unlimited power."

Inadvertently, he drew forward. He was a projection. It was from the use of a gem in the Mad Titan's possession. How he'd tapped it without having it himself he didn't know.

He needed a thing to get him out. Needed it with a desperation that made every pain he'd ever felt seem a paltry, trifling event.

It was an Infinity Stone. Safe within its casing.

The Tesseract.

"Well,"

His voice came oddly and rough. He could taste blood.

There was a mirror, and it caught his reflection. The ancients had known that mirrors catch the image of the soul. The grin made him look like a skull.

"I guess that's worth a look."

The fool doctor. The man Thor had resided with on Midgard. His woman's keeper. He heard the whisper as the thoughts of his own heart and he nodded. He looked up at the man who had led him here. "Well," Selvig agreed, "I guess that's worth a look."

And Loki's laughter reverberated on the thick metal of the encasing walls.


	19. Chapter 19

He broke their grip. Three times more before they caught him.

He'd been tracking the doctor. Planning. Watching. Lurking in shadows and the reflective glasses a middle-aged man would never think to glance at in passing. Planting suggestions as the fool needed them. Scheming. Scouting.

Then he was caught.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

There was no will but the one that demanded he serve.

The will that sent legions into galaxies unknown and crushed entire world's for sport. That would bathe whole realms in blood. That tore apart the infants it stole from dying worlds and built them into monsters for its work.

There was no will but that.

And nothing the Mad Titan would not order done to break _his_.

It had been a long while since he'd had anything to hold to.

Death was cruel. Or afraid. She fled the monsters of the dark that she ought to have commanded as her legions.

But it was just as well. In his more lucid moments he _knew._

He would have his vengeance on the creatures who broke him.

They had no idea with whom they were dealing. They had seen only what he _was._ Had seen him fail. He was not that child any longer.

And he would crush them for no greater reason than his hatred.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Then, abruptly, he broke.

I will tell you.

I will tell you everything.

They paused in their work.

They didn't see through the blood, how he smiled.


	20. Chapter 20

"So, you like this bauble you've found. Bring it."

I will not

"You dare –"

I would bargain with your master

"You would _dare_ –"

 _Let the king speak. We would hear its offer. We would speak of it to_ our _Master._

You want this thing. I can bring it to you. I know its workings. I know the realm it is on as I know my own.

"As though we should be as fool as that –"

 _Let it speak. How would you do this?_

The mortals are weak, but they are many. I will need an army –

"Are we expected to hear this?"

 _Peace._

They will protest its theft. They are a greedy and primitive people. They know the Tesseract has power, though they know not how to harness it. They would have that power as their own. They are weaker than they know. They know nothing of you or of your forces. They will be easily overcome.

 _You ask an army and you ask that we allow you release. Surely you do not offer your services freely?_

No. I sought release in my travels, as you know. I will bring you this cube. I will help you in your coming war. All I ask is that you grant me the Earth to be mine, with my freedom.

 _You see great worth in that realm?_

On the contrary. They are powerless and desperate. I ask only for my own amusement – as a child asks for a dog to keep as a pet. Nothing more.

 _Your amusement?_

AllFather Odin sought to keep my rightful throne from me. I would take that place on a realm he cares for to spite him. And my brother, who loves it. He will be powerless against you. And, surely, should he see fit to strike, I should have earned some offer of your protection after my faithful service.

 _Even as you should have some offer of our full vengeance should you play us false in this._

Do _you_ not need this thing? The Tesseract? Is not the Earth a small price? And I should win it myself, with but a few of your soldiers.

None of _yours_ know the Tesseract as I do. I was raised alongside its keeper, amid its lore and legends. _I_ can wield it as none of yours can.

Have you another that can act as I can in this?

 _We will consider it._

"Are you certain?"

 _We would bide by our own council._

Have we an agreement?

 _We will speak to our Master._

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Well?

 _You shall be sent._

 _In display of our goodwill, you shall not go empty-handed. Ask as you would. Surely you shall need some weapon._

I will need loan of a certain trifle your Master holds, in order to carry myself to that realm.

 _And for more._

 _We had rather hoped you might choose_ that _boon, Little King._


	21. Chapter 21

Their 'Master' sought to acquire the six Infinity Stones.

Thus far, he'd managed one.

And he'd lost it to Loki's keeping.

But its theft was not without price. Loki knew the workings of the Mind Gem. Knew its use to burrow deep within a man's heart and exploit all traits there residing. The loyal, to thoughtless obedience. The kind, to witless generosity. The vengeful, to madness. In a mortal, the effects were complete and overpowering, as though all the rest of them were driven aside from fear of this one, cardinal trait. Merely residing near the _gem_ was ill-advised. Its powers were fierce. They sucked at the mind like a maelstrom to the soul's raw core.

In one of the older races, it was different. An elf. Dwarf. Giant. God. Their minds were less easily overcome. Perhaps something the mortals would adapt to. But they hadn't yet. Loki counted on that.

Counted on it more than he'd planned.

He held the Mind Stone at the price of the full faculty of his own mind. Placing the spear crafted to house and focus the gem into his hand, Loki felt the mad titan dig his claws in. It was painless, and stunning, all at once, like an unexpected drop from some height.

He'd rather hoped the titan would neglect that particular precaution.

He gasped for his breath.

The 'Other', his latest _keeper_ , leered at him.

He'd been told, then, that the procedure was taken that he might communicate with the 'Other' at any time. It was a thing meant to both channel communication between them and to track the feet of its bearer. "That your _army_ may find you."

The creature leaned forward.

"Should such things be _truly_ necessary," it hissed.

But Loki knew more than that. The Tesseract had shown him more than these creatures knew. Thus used, the gem would allow the 'Other' audience of his every word.

At any time, Thanos could press _just_ harder and force his will to break. Force him to do as he would not, and he would have no knowledge of it until the thing was done. As with any mortal. Thanos had the strength.

The mad titan _knew_ his mind. _Knew_ his weakness.

The weakness of the one who had fallen.

A weakness that might yet be exploited, and might not be necessary. Thanos _might_ possess enough power, even having the Gem far from his grip, to force his hand.

It made everything harder. He'd be forced to veil his hand more fully than he'd counted on.

He'd won at impossible odds before.

And what had he left to lose.

He would yet out-smart the Mad Titan.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **I don't remember where I heard about how the stone worked. It was not something I made up myself. That came from somewhere else (someone was comparing it to the serum used on Captain America and saying how similar they actually were).**

 **The Other-can-hear-everything-Loki-says part came from the movie, actually. Loki just SAYS 'send the rest.' He doesn't DO anything – not even any touching-my-temple-bs like Professor X – he just says it.**

 **Now, granted, Thor also just talks and the rest of the team responds. But. I like this theory. Take it or leave it.**


	22. Chapter 22

They showed him the army that would be his, should he fail so as to require it.

A mercenary race.

The Chitauri.

From the first, he loathed them.

He tipped his chin back, the shaft of his spear in hand. He wore armor, the same as he had worn in all his old life.

He wanted to be recognized.

It was bold, but the 'Other' only saw it as resplendent evidence of his pride.

Loki sneered. "They will suffice," he said.

Turning to be gone, he paused. Senses long rubbed raw pricked at his mind and brought up images of light, of hope, of safety.

She had come to mean all of that to him as a child.

It could not be. It was madness.

His madness had been a thing of darkness. Of cold and pain. This was not as that had been. And it did not vanish as those phantoms had, chittering and laughing at his touch.

He did not know how long a time had gone. He did not know how far she had had to come, or how long she had looked.

But the traces of her presence did not fade.

Scrying was a delicate art, he knew that. She'd taught him, a little. He knew that, should she have sought him, she would have the sight of him, but little else beyond. Unless she had not yet seen him. Imperceptibly as he might, he shifted, tracing against his magic to attract what notice he might. Turning, he indicated the army below.

"Your Chitauri will serve me," he said.

The 'Other' clicked and sneered. "They will serve their Master," it promised.

Loki swept about, cutting through the traces of the scrying, sending Frigga back to Asgard with her news before another should sense her. If it _had_ indeed been she, and not some mad filament of his mind.

Closing his eyes, he did not know what was memory, and what was dream. He was tired. And it was little beyond fear that kept him upright. He knew that, should he show weakness, this chance would be lost to him.

He did not know if she had come with intent to help or to slay. There was none other with her strength in the art. The AllFather might have sent her for either. She would take her news to him without delay.

He could see her. For one moment. In his mind. An image of her, calm and smiling as she had been when he'd been no more than a child.

He had not known how much he _missed_ her. Her voice, her smile, her feel of her hand.

The 'Other' touched his arm and before he could better act, he'd jerked the arm away.

The creature smiled at him. "Your mind wanders," it hissed, "as a creature of the day, walking at night. It would not _pay_ for you to become lost."

He looked at the creature for one long moment. Then, "No," he agreed. Turning to look over the ranks of his army again, gripping the shaft of the spear in his hand, "No it would not."

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

 **There was a comic put out by Marvel about the time between** _ **Thor**_ **and** _ **Avengers**_ **that I read years ago. This was one of two parts that stuck with me. I don't remember it in detail, all the details were my own, but the idea of Frigga finding him was from the comic.**

 **And how else was Thor supposed to know that Loki had an army called the Chitauri? Asgard knew nothing of them. But Odin likes to keep secrets. I like to think that Loki knew he was gonna need help, and he dropped the name so that Frigga would tell Odin and they could do some research or Odin could admit what he'd kept secret about there BEING a race called the Chitauri.**

 **Because apparently Odin's an impulsive, pathological liar. Oh well. One can only hope he meant well.**

 **While I'm here, I meant to imply that the last few chapters took up the great majority of the time he was missing. The parts that I wrote about were only a few months. I can only do so many chapters on torture. I hope it came through.**


	23. Chapter 23

He'd done it.

He was free.

The knowledge shot through him like an electric shock. Exhilarating in the rush of the energy that evaporated off of him from the portal.

It was inefficient means, when compared with the Bifrost. But it had carried him as he'd known it would.

The ground spun and dove beneath him and he thought that he might fall.

"Sir," the voice was directed at him, "please put down the spear."

Straightening, he took in the room.

Knowledge of what he was, where he'd come from, and what he was seeing, was slower to return than it ought to have been, but the man addressing him was the one he had seen before. The one-eyed commander who had spoken with Selvig. The man was cunning. That would be paramount.

The Chiaturi expected immediate result. And his Masters expected him to snatch the Tesseract from the hands of the petty mortals he'd described without trouble.

As it was, Loki was not certain for how long he would be able to stand.

They hadn't bodies akin to his. They did not understand how he was broken. They _couldn't_ understand how he was broken or all of this was lost.

The mortals had no notion of what they'd awoken. The vast army that had only to get a hold of this _cube_ to crush the place they called their home. He could afford to frighten them.

He _wanted_ to frighten them. Fools. Meddling in things that were not theirs to grasp and posturing their right to it as though it was a thing they had earned.

It was as the 'Other' expected. He was sent to do as he might on his own and with the gem. If needed, the Chitauri were to be given him.

Loki would see to it that they were needed.

Midgard must know what monsters it had awoken, reaching out like witless children in the dark. Asgard must know the danger.

And the extinction of the 'Other's people counted as no great loss to Loki.

When he had been but a child Odin had taught him and his brother that the people of Midgard were to be protected in their weakness and stupidity. If by the deaths of a few the race could be preserved, then those few would be honored by they that lived on. Odin had often answered him so, when in his child's mind he had doubted that death was ever right.

Until such time as it was unnecessary, he would have these mortals fear him.

His motions were fluid and too fast for their eyes to follow. He moved with all the expansion he could allow, sharp and deadly.

He'd overestimated his own strength. He panted for breath and sweat poured off his skin. But he could not have them see his weakness. The mortals had to understand him as the threat he was and they had to know that he was the least of the horrors that hung above their complacent heads. He would have them gather their armies.

They were fools. They would try other tactics first. He knew this. An army would only be mobilized for a catastrophe of immense range.

The 'Other' would expect to see him strike. Now. Every moment added doubt which compounded scrutiny.

He took what few he could. Barton was a prize – wise in the ways of mortals and especially of this organization he would be forced to play against. His help would be invaluable. Selvig was unfortunately necessary.

The after-effects of his traveling had caused excess energy, and the fools had buried the Tesseract so deep beneath their stronghold that there was no release.

He gave the one-eye, the Commander, his name. He spoke it loud, that Heimdall might hear. He spoke of _burdens_ , of _tidings born_ as by a herald – an errand-runner, of _boots_ as those _worn_ by commanders in battle. He spoke of Freedom as one with mind warped and broken. He spoke what lines he had been fed and he spoke in riddles, trusting that the Commander would have the cunning to escape and to break his words for their truth before next they met.

The ceiling was collapsing down upon them. On his orders Barton led him, trailing his other minions to their vehicles, and out from under the collapsing stone, pursued by the Commander's warriors to the open air of night.

Then they were free in the dark, with nothing but the plains of a Midgardian desert about them.

Watching the glow of the fallen fortress as it faded and vanished form view, Loki rested his head back against the frame of the vehicle. Pain burned in his gut and vibrated along every path of his bones.

He hadn't the space for weakness now.

The car jolted and he winced.

* * *

 **Sorry about the longer-wait between chapters. I've been a.) busy and b.) working on a holiday-fic ('The Most Wonderful Time of the Year' - for anybody interested). I'm gonna try to keep up better from here on out. I'm not gonna update ANYTHING on Christmas day, but I should probably be back in business the day after.**

 **I hope you all have a blessed holiday!**


	24. Chapter 24

Catacombs deep beneath a city, walled with brick and damp to the touch. The air, stale and cold. This would be sufficient as he amassed what yet he required.

He'd dragged his minions with him, abandoning Selvig in the car with the second man he'd taken as guard. He and Barton had business to attend to and they needed the freedom of movement without the bumbling doctor beneath their feet.

And besides, Selvig had much to learn.

The doctor held the case open on his lap in the back of the car with a look of transfixed wonder on the blue wash of his stupid face, absorbing all the gem chose to show him.

Fools, these mortals. Thinking the gem a thing to be harnessed and caged. She was a thing to be wooed. Pulsing with a life of her own. A life unlike theirs, but no less real.

He would have to work with what tools were lent him.

Barton was a trove of martial knowledge and willing to divulge any and all of it. He knew where to gain followers and when they would be vulnerable. Where to find the bodies to serve him and the minds given to the scientific knowledge Selvig would need at his command. He knew what were the weaknesses of the organization SHIELD.

Loki sensed more than Barton spoke. He knew sedition. Its scent and feel.

"Is there no military organization in this Realm superior to this, 'Shield'?"

"No Sir," Barton responded confidently, "SHIELD's the best of the best."

And wearily Loki conceded that he would have to accept it.

Spent as he was, there was no time for rest. And even moving through it, as he had upon his landing, he could feel his body knitting itself back together. The air of the realm was less potent than that of a higher one, but it was of the Nine. It was enough.

Finally, they'd built what needed building. Selvig was fashioning the harness that would allow the gem to open a portal both wide and deep enough that the Chitauri could come through and wreak the death Thanos desired.

Watching Selvig at his work Loki worried absently at his thumbnail with his teeth. He could have asked the Nine for the price of that stone. Only a fool would offer less. For all the seeming hesitance of his minions, Thanos would have offered anything. To ask nothing was the place of a sycophant and would arouse suspicion. To ask its proper price would unveil his true knowledge of the thing. Best this way. Earth.

Should he choose to keep it…

But that was beside the question. It was never a part of his scheme to actually succeed.

Unless. Should he succeed. Should he gain Earth for his own. He could build these mortals into a force to be reckoned with. They would need all the help they could attract when the Mad Titan came for them. Should he win this fight, he could rally them to strength.

Look what he'd done already, and with so few.

Giving an abrupt shake of his head, Loki set his jaw.

The cube was never going to be enough for the Titan. Thanos longed for Death and he would spread Her a feast across every realm. It was for this he desired the gems.

Loki had known the Mad Titan would not resist his agreement if he offered death.

" _Of those you would have as your subjects?"_

 _They are but mortals._ He'd answered. _They do the job well enough on their own. What more is their lot._

Truth. For the sake of a lie.

Loki Liesmith, Silvertongue.

Only once had he been beaten at his own game.

Only once.

It was some twelve hours since the inception of this, his latest intrigue.

He would need to make an accounting of himself. That, or risk being summoned.

This was not bound to be a meeting he would enjoy.

Bending the Mind Gem in the scepter he held, he sent himself to meet his Keeper and he opened his eyes to the surrounding depth of space. The places between.

The stuff of the atmosphere slid unevenly in his lungs.

The 'Other' paced. Part of him recognized the movements and the voice of the thing from all of his time in the past twelve-month since his withdrawal from the 'Realm Eternal'. The 'Other' had been liaison between himself and Thanos these past days, but Loki had no way of being certain if the creature was one of those with whom he had spoken before that time.

He was uncertain of much, these days.

As it unnerved him, he did not think of it. There was enough, and more than enough for the present time.

"The Chitauri grow restless," it hissed.

"Let them gird themselves," he sent a projection of himself in battle array to pace before the hunched _thing_. Golden, and so alien to the skulking, crookedness it presented. He knew that that would nettle it and he liked to offer what little retaliation he could. "I will lead them in glorious battle."

"Battle?" it questioned, "Against the meager might of Earth?"

Vaguely, he recalled his own gasped answers to hissed questions as he labored for breath between times. He'd told them how weak were the mortals.

The creature had much to lose. A flatterer, pandering to the whims of its Master. Easily drawn into whatever shape needed.

It had never supported his notion of war against the mortals.

"Glorious," he answered, "Not lengthy. _If_ ," he rounded to watch the creature skittering away from him amid the formations of the stone beneath their feet, "your force is as…formidable as you claim."

"You question us?" its incredulity was charming, "You question _Him?_ He who put the scepter in your hand? Who gave you ancient knowledge and new purpose when you were cast out," its voice went lower, wheedling, "defeated –"

His hand tightened on the staff.

"I was a king!" he snapped, "The rightful king of Asgard," the words were sour on his tongue, "betrayed."

 _"Until the AllFather awakens, Asgard it yours."_

"Your ambition is little," the 'Other' scoffed, "and born of childish need. We look _beyond_ , to greater worlds that the Tesseract will unveil."

"You don't have the Tesseract."

The thing snarled. It turned on him, one hand raised as though to strike.

Loki did not flinch. "I do not threaten," he kept his voice soft as velvet, his eyes like steel, "but until your force is _mine_ to command," _soft the blow that kills them_ , "you are but words."

That was the agreement. The 'Other's' Master had arranged it. The Tesseract, in exchange for a _little_ world. A _little_ war.

"You shall have your war, _Asgardian_ ," the 'Other' spat. It paced slowly around Loki, voice a menacing hum. "But _if_ you _fail_ , if the Tesseract is kept from us," it was directly behind him now. Loki would not turn though his spine _crawled_. He would not give it the satisfaction. "There will be no rock… no barren moon," it crept up close to his ear, "no _crevice_ where He cannot find you. You think you know pain?" It had raised a hand as though in caress and Loki did not move. Should it touch this form, his aspect would revert back to the more stable one a few yards away. Nothing more. And he refused to be manipulated _any_ more than was absolutely necessary by this _thing._

That was behind him.

"He will make you long for something sweet as _pain_."

With a half-caught-back cry Loki slammed back into himself in the catacombs where he could feel the hum of the Tesseract. Not only was he not in that _plac_ e, he was on Midgard. Pain radiated from the place on his head where the 'Other' had touched him but he closed his teeth on it. He'd endured worse.

It should not have been possible.

And that opened up untold vistas of error, neglected in his accounting.

Loki's lips pressed a fine line. He hadn't _room_ for miscalculations. Hadn't time.

His blood shuddered cold in his veins.

Drawing himself together, he rose to meet the feet that were fast approaching, intending to pass him without so much as a second glance, as his drones did, to please him.

"Barton,"

The man drew up and turned to face him, face blank and eyes washed with blue, "Sir." He tucked the tablet he'd been flicking through under one arm.

"What of the cars?"

"ETA approximately fifty minutes, Sir."

"Do better."

"Yes, Sir."

A movement just on the edge of his consciousness. He followed it. Pressed it back.

"Anything else, Sir?"

He jerked, startled that the man was still there. He folded that away with all the rest.

"No, that will be all."

Then Barton had gone and Loki's blood was pounding and cold under his skin. He took himself back, far from the eyes of his drones. It was through force of habit. These would see only what he chose them to see and all would vanish the moment his hold broke on them. And his hiding would be no protection again the 'Other'. Every word that crossed his _lips_ entered that creature's head. But not sight. They couldn't see him. Only if he _spoke_ …

The movement nagged at him, like the aching of an old wound. Thanos was near. He only just pressed his hold. A warning. Loki looked at the staff in his hand. At the pulsing blue casing that housed and hid the Mind Gem. His mouth was a tight line. He dared show nothing.

The game was barely yet begun and already he doubted his strength.

 _You've only ever failed_.

He took a long breath, rearranged the façade he'd perfected and slipped back, unnoticed, into the stream of his minions.

The fool Selvig saw him coming and threw out arms in greeting, "Hey!" he beamed, "The Tesseract has shown me so much," he came around, hands gesturing in front of him, thanking him as he might a rich benefactor. The smile on his lips looked delirious. "It's more than knowledge, it's Truth."

He had often wondered what it might be like, to have someone come to him like that. He found he could not appreciate it.

"I know," he smiled back. A pity this man had to be the one. Ah well. If all went well this was likely to be the last Loki saw of him.

The Gem shifted just slightly. It sensed its necessity to Selvig's calculations.

Loki gripped the scepter just tighter. Should the Midgardians fail so completely, the gem held the key to closing off the portal. The knowledge was knotted into Selvig's mind. Should the man forget all else, he should never forget that. Loki was sure of it. He tested it, and he was sure.

The thought that perhaps he need _not_ fail…nagged at his mind. He thrust it away.

"What did it show you, Agent Barton?"

The man turned to him, blank-faced and ready to serve, as a soldier ought. As different from the scientist as man could be. "My next target."

 _Good._

His body was healing and he itched to move.

So, it was to begin.

Selvig had said they would need an immense source of power, something Barton had told him was readily available, courtesy of a "Mr. Stark", a common offender on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s list. Agent Barton had spoken disparagingly of the man. Said he caused more trouble than he was worth. But the inventor had potential in many ways. Ways Barton had no knowledge of.

"Tell me what you need."

The man went two paces aside to a table and opened a black case that lay upon it. He drew something out.

"I need a distraction."

This power source Stark had discovered was resident with him in the city of New York. A highly commercial place. Open to the eyes of all the Realm. And, if Asgard's Watchman was worth _anything_ , to all the Worlds.

Barton flicked his hand, jerking the thing so that it blossomed into his chosen weapon, a sleek, black bow.

"And an eyeball."

Loki smiled.

This was a game he well knew the way of.


	25. Chapter 25

Stuttgart, Germany. A building of white stone, crammed with simpering mortals gathered to view some artifact of an ancient society completely unattached to their own. They postured and preened. They longed to be seen, admired, sought after.

It made the evening all the more delicious that these mortals were no more noble in their play than he. And significantly less far-sighted.

He would _rule_ them.

Sometimes, he forgot that all that was only the ploy.

But it little mattered here what it was he remembered and what he forgot. Better to be uncertain. Better to hide what it was he truly sought.

What is your mind, when it's not _your_ mind?

The Hawk was nearly in place.

The music of their stringed instruments floated over the noise of the gathering like a palpable thing. The quarry would be readying itself for the speech it meant to give. It would have some type of guard. Which would prove only the beginning of the night's entertainment.

There it was.

The Hawk was in position. All that was wanting was before him. Down below, in the inner court where the masses gathered and the quarry had only just begun its discourse.

The next move would appear to be _his_.

Past the murals decorating the walls he went down the long, twisted staircase.

The Guard caught his movement, "Entschuldigen Sie–"

He caught the scepter in his hand and brought the stone against the soft place at the side of the man's head and made in one swoop for his charge. Taking him by the collar, Loki dragged him a few paces and forced him forward to the artifact.

An altar.

He'd laughed when the Hawk had told him that.

He drove his arm down, sending the blithering man around and about onto his back. With a choked grunt, its protestations strangled.

The flare of satisfaction was delicious as it rose to his head and Loki swallowed it back into his throat.

The people woke from their shock. They shook off the first numbness of it, stammering backwards.

He drew the device from inside his coat and pressed the trigger at the end of it.

The signal travelled from one half of the mechanism to the other, the one that Barton held. The end of it opened, answering the Hawk's response.

 _Perfect_.

The man under Loki's hand twitched, coming out of the daze.

He'd wish he hadn't. The device whirred as Loki brought his hand down, shoving the thing deep into the man's eye socket. The image would travel between halves to Barton where it would unlock what he needed opened.

The body spasmed under Loki's hand.

Horror rose, palpable in the air as the people remembered themselves. A scream flew free and the first few cognizant ones caught up their robes and stumbled for the exit. Then the others, the masses, woke. They trampled one another as they fled. Stampeding like cattle who'd caught scent of a predator.

And he was a predator worth fleeing.

Not some powerless thing to be bent. To be broken.

To have this effect. To be moving, taking action.

The rush was sweet. It licked up the back of his throat. It burned like fire about the trunk of a tree. And he would have _laughed_. His fingers itched to tear and grind and force their will to his.

He would _rule_ them.

He pushed at the Gem and armor like that he'd worn in another life materialized about him. Gold and black and predatory.

He moved out of the building and into the night beyond with the deliberate slowness of a thing that knows its prey caught beyond hope.

They couldn't flee him.

And besides the grandiose spectacle he cut to draw the belated eyes of all the world, the competition would need the time he bought to catch him up.

He took in the lay of the city, the scrambling of the frantic people.

A _little_ world. A _little_ people.

As masses will when in flight, they travelled together in one pack. They hadn't gotten far enough yet from the source of their terror that they thought to splinter off on their own.

Movement to his left. One of their vehicles was charging him.

 _You_ dare.

He hit it with a blast from the spear. The vehicle sailed through the air and went skidding along the length of the road behind him, sparks darting out from under its crumpled hood.

The _power_ of the thing he accessed flowed through him and burned in his veins. It was dangerous, but it was _good_.

This second quarry was caught.

He threw an image of himself before them and they recoiled.

"Kneel before me."

Crying out they stumbled for footing and he cast two more of his simulacra, raising them at the left hand and the right of the mob.

"I said," he drew himself up before them. Smashed the butt of the spear into the ground and light shot between the simulacra of the stones. The mortals screamed in terror for their lives and Loki shouted, " _Kneel!_ "

Terror-stricken, they no more sought escape. The people knelt.

And Loki wanted to laugh. He spread his arms to all of them. They shook with fear.

If this fear of him spread, then there was hope they would take action.

"Is this not simpler?" he waded in amongst them, "Is this not your natural state?" there was no sound amongst them besides his own voice.

"It's the unspoken truth," he continued, "of humanity, that you crave subjugation. The bright lure of freedom diminishes your life's joy in a mad scramble for power,"

" _So I'm no more than another stolen relic, to be locked up here until you have use of me?"_

"For identity,"

He pushed it away. This was a bigger game than ever he'd known.

He looked them all over. "You were made to be ruled," he promised, "In the end," he purred, "you will always kneel."

Bare paces away, one of them moved.

Then the mortal got to his feet.

He stood.

An old, old man.

Surely _this_ could not be the opposition.

Loki all-but gaped at him.

You have _Stark_ and his machines, _Banner_ and his monster, and you send _one old man_?

The old man raised his chin very levelly. "Not to men like you."

And Loki realized that this man was standing on his own. For his own. A volunteer.

Admirable, but stupid. And infinitely more dangerous.

"There are no men like me." Giving a shake of his head, Loki swallowed a laugh, at himself. At the absurdity of it.

An impenetrable sadness washed off the man. Like a memory of what Midgard used to be. A breath of the futility before them.

"There are always men like you," he said.

The people were waking, shifting, turning about to see who could have had the nerve to stand up to this terror. His courage flickered in the depths of several eyes.

If one man could stand…

This could not be tolerated. Loki had promised blood and he'd promised conquest. Rebellion could not be born. Not now, not _yet_.

"Look to your elder, people," Loki levelled the spear.

It might be that one death would force SH.I.E.L.D.'s mysterious hand.

"Let him be an example."

The Gem sent off a blast and all in the same moment there was a flash and he'd crashed to his knees. Pain shuddered through every part of him. Deflection. He'd been hit by his own attack which meant – The stone was cold under his hands as he pushed himself up. Pain shivered through his midsection.

"You know," a man from Midgard's legends stood before him. A shield was held loosely on one arm. The smoke from the blast curled off of its edges and shone thin and vaporous in the streetlamps. Barton had spoken briefly of this one. "The last time I was in Germany, and saw a man standing above everybody else," the legend came forward, calm and exposed. A fool. An actor. "We ended up disagreeing."

Loki wanted to laugh, "The soldier," he said. As though they had no better to send.

His knees _ached_.

Pressing the butt of the spear into the ground he forced himself to his feet, "The man out of time."

"I'm not the one who's out of time."

A flying vehicle swooped down, behind the man, lowering guns from a hatch at its bottom. A woman's voice emanated from a speaker attached to the thing, "Loki, drop the weapon and stand down."

Well, it'd make a better show.

He shot at the vehicle and it jerked out of his way.

The soldier flung his shield and its rotating side smashed harmlessly against Loki's chest, jumping back to the hand of it master.

Like Mjolnir.

The people were flying in all directions, screaming, but their use was past. He let the simulacra vanish.

The soldier's fist connected with his jaw and he brought the shaft of the spear up. The man blocked the blow and Loki slid under it, flung the man backward so that the costumed jape was sent skidding on his back across the pavements. The mortal used the momentum to his advantage, however, and rolled panting to his feet. He wound back, completely exposing his chest and Loki swatted the shield out of the air, off of its flight path.

He'd trained against Thor enough times.

The shield clattered to the ground.

Loki swung the bladed end of the spear and the man ducked backward beneath it, dodging and ducking till Loki finally got him across the back and the man sprawled on his face.

Loki stalked over, rested the butt of the spear on his head as he struggled up.

"Kneel."

The man took a short, sharp breath.

"Not today," he said. He shoved the spear away and leapt into the air – all in one movement – spinning so that his knee shot out and up and caught Loki against his chin. He reeled, then got the man by the jaw and flung him across the bared ground.

The world wavered under his feet.

It hadn't been nearly long enough for his injuries to heal themselves. He was sloppy. The blood pounded behind his eyes. But the Chitauri wouldn't know that. Thanos wouldn't see it. This man had no notion of it.

Aggressive tactics, alien to their own. That was all they need know.

He approached the fallen hero.

The carrier had recovered from his attack and hovered nearby. They hesitated for fear of harming their champion.

There was a strange crackling from the speakers, then a coughing roar. Loki recognized it as a type of Midgardian music. That was unlike…

A spark shooting out from behind a tower caught his eye and all in the instant that it connected, the spark had become a man, weapon raised and fired. Loki's spine smashed against the stair and drove out his breath.

Pain radiated to his extremities, but that was nothing.

He pressed himself gingerly upright on the stair as he surveyed this new attacker.

Stark.

Two heroes, and a carrier with its weaponry aimed for his now exposed chest.

"Make your move, Reindeer Games."

He supposed it was enough.

The weaponized hero lowered his arms. "Good move."

It was enough.


	26. Chapter 26

To be taken by Earth's 'heroes', was necessary.

That Thor arrive was also necessary. Loki had done all he could to gain the eyes both of this world, and of his former home.

He had been a fool to assume that it would be easy to face him again.

Earth's champions squabbled amongst themselves as they oversaw him. They would bring him to their headquarters. They ought not so easily bare their distrust for one another in his sight, but that barely touched his mind save in one moment of fleeting mockery. They were flying their precarious mortal contraption through a thunderstorm.

And it was one of _his._

The aircraft shook with the force of his landing and it was a wonder to Loki's mind that they were not struck from the very sky.

Then Thor was there.

He hadn't expected to be afraid.

Thor caught him by the throat and dragged him up. His eyes were every bit as blue as he has remembered them. Electric and soft with sentimental hurt. Then he'd flung them both from the flying machine. The air was cold and damp with the breath of the fallen night and the ground was shooting up under him.

And then Thor had loosed him, skidding against his back on the hard stone of the planet's surface.

And Thor's anger, Thor's hurt, his violence. It all washed over him, over his own awe and fear and the sudden _force_ of his landing, and he began to laugh.

His laughter had never known prudence.

But he would have it so.

He remembered, everything. And that memory bared its teeth and pushed the pain in his back away from him. It shoved him to his feet and allowed him to mock. It gave him the space to cling to it, and discount those other things that he might speak that could ruin all. His anger made him strong and it gave him purpose.

Thor pled. Thor begged answers. Thor threatened.

Loki's heart betrayed him. It surged within his breast. He could feel the first warning of the Stone's work on him and, desperately, he shifted to outpace it. But it was _in_ him. It was in his blood, in his pulse, twined with his soul.

He spat at Thor. He snarled and hissed.

Thor pursued him. Thor demanded. He argued.

And once, _once_ , Loki almost broke for him.

But Thor asked after the Stone.

"I don't have it."

He had given Barton orders to take Selvig. He had not designated a location in his order, trusting the discretion of the archer. He knew their ultimate destination, but he had taken pains that he himself speak no location on the way.

The Mad Titan had many whom he could send.

And Loki would not have his prize stolen from him.

He laughed at Thor's rage.

"Listen well, Brother,"

Loki could hear the same mechanized _hum_ that had heralded the metal man's approach in Stutgart. Thor had even been less observant than he, especially in his anger.

Anger honed Loki's skill.

It blunted Thor's.

His mother had seen it long ago, when she counseled him to knife and Thor to hammer.

He comforted himself with Thor's consternation when the mortal took him to the forest floor below.

From under the cliff, Thor reoriented himself. He found the place where Loki stood, looking down at him. Thor bade him remain. Loki sat down to wait amid the weeds on the edge of the precipice.

Flight, in that moment, would avail him nothing. He thought he would quite enjoy watching the champions feel out their strengths. Watch them battle.

But he found his own thoughts more distracting.

Ignoring the mounting conflict beneath him, Loki recalled Thor's words.

 _Did you mourn?_

 _We all did._

He pushed the thoughts away, but the bitter taste did not leave his mouth any more than the chill that had settled in his blood.


	27. Chapter 27

He was taken by 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' and escorted to their base, a fortress in the sky. They relieved him of his scepter, and he made no effort to keep it from them. It would do its work and hopefully one of them would have the good sense to see what it was that it did to them before it was too late.

Or they might take him, break him for knowledge.

Torture.

It was a game he had played at before. And one he rather thought he might have won.

He highly doubted the humans would be half as inventive as the others he had faced.

He faced the Commander again, from within the cage they had created for the beast, should it tear itself free from of the man who contained it.

Director Fury was irate. He threatened, and Loki mocked, but the Director would look no deeper. Fury would not dig beneath the veneer of the words themselves to see what they hid. Perhaps instinctively he feared what he might find, should he peer beneath the stones that made up his command.

Glancing at the perimeter of his latest cage, Loki noticed the cameras. And, frustrated at the Director's refusal to see the larger frame, Loki spoke above him. He spoke to the heroes beyond.

"A warm light for mankind to share," he mocked.

Fury asked him no question. Only threatened.

Disgusted and more anxious than he wanted to acknowledge, Loki paced.

Then the woman came.

 _Romanoff_.

Barton had spoken freely of her. And fondly.

Loki had rather thought that he might face her.

"There aren't many who can sneak up on me," he told her.

She folded her arms, "But you figured I'd come."

He faced her. "After."

She looked at him, perplexed.

"After whatever tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear as a friend, as a balm," he smiled at her, "And I would cooperate."

She hardened. "I wanna know what you've done to Agent Barton."

Loki shrugged, "I'd say I've expanded his mind."

Shaking her head she softened again, "And once you've won," she asked, "once you're King of the Mountain, what happens to his mind?"

Frustration roiled in his gut, and he masked it with a smile, "Is this love, Agent Romanoff?"

"Love is for children. I owe him a debt."

Looking at her for one long moment, he nodded his head. "Tell me."

Then, turning his back on her, he sat down.

Calculating, she drew a long breath. She took a seat of her own opposite him. "Well, before," she began, slowly, "I worked for SHIELD, I uh...well, I made a name for myself," she gave a soft, sardonic smile, "I have a very specific skillset. I didn't care who I used it for," she shrugged, "or on. I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me," she shifted in her seat and she looked at him. "He made a different call."

Understanding that her story was done, Loki nodded his head. "And," he said lowly, "what will you do if I vow to spare him?

She almost laughed at him, "Not let you out –"

"Ah, no," he interrupted her, "But I _like_ this. Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man?"

"Regime's fall everyday," she shrugged, "I tend not to weep over that, I'm Russian," she faltered, "Or I was."

He latched to that, "And what are you now?"

"It's really not that complicated," she stood, "I've got red in my ledger, I'd like to wipe it out."

He watched her as she stood. She folded her arms, and she watched him, her eyes almost smug. His frustration licked up in his throat, "Can you?" he asked, softly. "Can you wipe out that _much_ red?" He watched her, and he saw that she _knew_. "Drakoff's daughter? Sao Paulo? The hospital fire? Barton told me everything," he got to his feet, pressing closer to her as horror gripped her, " Your ledger is dripping," he pressed, "it's _gushing_ red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything? This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer. Pathetic! You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers. You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors. But they are a part of you, and they will _never_ go away." He slammed his fist against the glass, "I won't hurt Barton, not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And then he'll wake just long enough to see his good work, and when he screams I'll split his skull!"

Drawing a little back, he caught his breathe. "This is my bargain, you mewling quim."

She'd turned from him. "You're a monster."

"Oh, no," he laughed, "You brought the monster."

Turning fluidly about, she looked at him, all consternation swept beneath a calm façade, "So, Banner?" she asked, "That's your play?

He blinked at her, "What?

Leaving him she spoke into her earpiece, "Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab, I'm on my way. Set the door locked." Then she turned back to him, "Thank you, for your cooperation."

And with a little smile, she was gone.

 _Do you not see that you all are monsters?_

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

When her dire foretelling took place, he _laughed_.

And then Barton had come, and there was none to bar him from his escape. The Black Widow had fled her post.

Thor tried to stop him, but, to evade Thor was child's play.

Seeing Thor, so certain of his own superiority, made the blood rush in his veins.

He had been a fool to have thought this easy.

"These humans think us gods," he smiled, "shall we test that?"

"Move away please,"

Loki looked at the little man.

"You like this?" he indicated the weapon he held, "We started working on the Prototype after you sent the Destroyer. Even I don't know what it does,"

Loki backed from the control panel with his hands lifted.

"Let's find out."

He wanted to see Thor fall. See him bleed and despair.

He took the agent from behind.

Thor cried out. Loki let the man fall to the ground, bloodied, dying.

He pressed the button that would open the bottom of the fortress, just as the Commander had shown him. And he watched the cage plummet.

"You're gonna loose."

Amused, Loki looked at the man, bleeding out on the ground behind him, "Am I?" he asked.

"It's in your nature."

"You're heroes are scattered, your floating fortress _falls_ from the sky…where exactly is my disadvantage?"

"You lack conviction."

Fear cut for one moment through the haze, "I don't think _I_ –"

The blast from the weapon caught him full in the chest and sent him flying backward and through the far wall. The impact crushed his ribs. Choking for breath, Loki gathered himself.

Attaining the floor, he caught his breath, one hand flying of its own to a sudden flare of pain in the side of his head. The archer was lost to him, his hold snapped by some sudden blow.

Straightening again, breathing hard to recover himself, Loki left the wing of the plummeting fortress, and the agent, dead behind him. He followed the tracings to the scepter, and with it once more firmly in his possession, he made for the surface. There he took a vehicle that would transport him to the city.


	28. Chapter 28

He never recalled much of that flight. What little came to his mind was tinted, warped with the touch of the Mad Titan.

When he woke from it to his own mind, standing in the light of the sun and the caress of the wind on Stark's tower, his heart tripped upon itself.

The scepter was in his hand, and the stone ensconced within it writhed.

It fed on overabundance. In Barton it had found loyalty. It had driven that loyalty to thoughtless compliance. In Selvig it had found a thirst for understanding, and it had bared itself and its secrets to him.

In himself…

" _Your ambition is little_ _and born of childish need."_

Agitated, Loki gripped the scepter tighter in his hand and he paced the open deck. He was losing his ability to judge when his mind was being tampered with. Fear rolled somewhere behind his frustration. It should be over already. If the humans had not managed to be unutterably dull, it would have been. And his brother.

Thinking of his brother would avail him nothing.

Closing his eyes and drawing a breath, he stilled himself. He drove out the tension in his shoulders. Feeling the sun on his face, the thrill of dominance in his blood, Loki twisted the stone and he went to his Keeper.

Opening his eyes to the darkness of the Void and the 'Other' on its rock, she smiled grimly. "My time has come."

"Resistance?" It asked.

Loki tipped his head, just slightly. "From a few," he said. "We'll pick them apart."

"And the rest?" the creature smiled, slow and ugly, "Come the throng."

Loki's heart dropped a little in his chest. He questioned, "Mow them down?"

And the creature smiled.

Then his hold slipped and slid and Midgard stood before him.

He could hear Slevig working above him and behind.

He ignored that sound.

He could hear something else.

 **TLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTLTL**

Stark's mechanized suit hummed as it cut through the air, bearing the man to his home.

He flew ahead of the others who were sure to follow, but he made no secret of his coming. He thought to destroy the portal before the proper time.

Amused, Loki watched him as he approached, landed, and activated the machinery to remove his armor.

Surely the man could not be so stupid.

He laid aside the tension and his own nearing panic in exchange for the distraction and the chance to play with this new toy and learn what he might.

"Please tell me you're going to appeal to my humanity," Loki approached him.

"Uh...actually," the mortal answered, "I'm planning to threaten you." Unperturbed, and utterly unarmed, Stark went around the little bar he'd built into the wall. Loki could not see what it was lay beyond at the mortal's fingertips, but he had little fear of anything the Stark might unleash on him and made no move to prevent his free movement.

His own arrogance made for a better show.

" _Your ambition is little_ _and born of childish need."_

Children liked to show off. And how else was he supposed to communicate with the heroes? Time was cutting short.

Remembering the stone and the cold of its tip on his heart he said none of that.

"You should have left your armor on for that," he said.

"Yeah, it's seen a bit of mileage," Stark replied, "and you've got the blue stick of destiny." He gestured offhandedly to the scepter.

The man's impudence would have been almost charming at another time.

"Would you like a drink?"

Fear beat in his head. He was too weak. But he hadn't _time_. And he could not be still. "Stalling me won't change anything."

"No, no, no!" the man blithely corrected, "Threatening. No drink? You sure? I'm having one."

"The Chitauri are coming," he told Stark, warned him. His vison cut in and out, "nothing will change that. What have I to fear?"

Part of him wondered if Stark might notice what he had said. If the so-called genius would read it as he ought.

He didn't. He took the chance for his own. "The Avengers," he answered.

Loki looked at him.

Stark shrugged in feigned modesty **, "** It's what we call ourselves, sort oflike a team. 'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' type of thing."

"Yes," Loki gave a bitter laugh, "I've met them."

"Yeah, takes us a while to get any traction, I'll give you that one," Stark began, "But, let's do a head count here. Yourbrother, the demi-God; a super soldier,a living legend who kind of lives up to the legend; a man with _breath-taking_ anger management issues; a couple ofmaster assassins, and you, big fella," he finished, "you've managed to piss off every single one of them."

Loki smiled at him. "That was the plan."

 _The second plan. After cooperation had failed._

Stark sipped his drink, "Not a great plan. When they come, andthey will, they'll come for you. **"**

"I have an army."

"We have a _Hulk_."

"Oh,I thought the beast had wandered off."

"You're missing the point. There's no throne," Stark snapped, "there is no version of this,where you come out on top. _Maybe_ your army comes and _maybe_ it's too much for us, but it's all on you."

Loki knew better than this man ever would what that would mean. The anxious energy in his blood turned hot and livid in his veins.

"Because if we can't protect the Earth, you can be damned well sure we'll avenge it."

His capture of the archer, his corruption of agents and destruction of facilities, his assaults on noncombatants, attempts on Thor's life and slaughter of the one who had brought "The Avengers" together meant so little? This impudent little husk of a man threatened him with – what? – pain? – as though the man even knew what that meant.

Abruptly, Loki decided that he had born with this man's insolence long enough.

 _"You lack conviction_."

Loki would bring them to understand his power if he had to draw the very hearts from their chests with his bare hands.

"How will your friends have time for me," he stalked nearer, "when they're so busy fighting you?" and he lowered the scepter.

The point touched Stark's chest with a soft, defined _ping._

And nothing happened.

Bemused, Loki frowned, and he pressed harder on the stone's power.

It should work. On any creature that bore a heart, the stone should be capable of exerting power. Surely this man could not…

"This usually works,"

"Well, you know," Stark shrugged glibly, "Performance issues. You know, one in five –"

Loki caught his throat in one hand and flung him to the ground.

"Jarvis," Stark croaked, "Anytime now."

Loki dragged him from the ground by his throat, "You will all _fall_ before me," he promised and he threw the man from him with all the strength he could summon.

Thick glass bent and shook and crumbled beneath the force.

Let 'The Avengers' find Stark's crushed body below. Perhaps _that_ might arouse them to sufficient action.

Turning in disgust from the shattered window Loki moved only in time to see a door open in the far wall and an object fly free after its master. Then Stark had risen, clad once more in his armor. Loki wanted to tear him from the sky.

"And there's one other person you pissed off," Stark's mechanized voice stated. "His name was Phil."

Loki raised the scepter, as Stark raised his hand. Stark's blast flew first and flung Loki from his feet and to the pavement.

But it was too late.

The portal was opened.

* * *

 **The part between the 'Other' (I just CAN'T say that with a straight face) and Loki is the first part of a deleted scene I found on Youtube MONTHS ago. The second half of that scene is included in a future chapter.**

 **Also, sorry. I've been out longer than I intended. Flu XP. Should be a leeeetle more regular from here on out...so long as I can catch up on chapters XP**


	29. Chapter 29

Drawing his armor from the spaces between, Loki stood on a ledge of Stark's tower and looked down over the edge at the chaos swirling below.

He'd told the Chitauri that vehicles were the greatest target. Perhaps it might reduce the cost in mortal blood, perhaps not. Either way, it met with his amusement.

Then Thor had come.

"Loki, turn off the Tesseract or I'll destroy it!"

"You can't," Loki whirled to face him, the 'Other''s jagged smile flashing behind his eyes. "There is no stopping it. There is only, the _War."_

Thor's jaw clenched. "So be it."

He responded to Thor as he always had, quickly and violently. And the Mad Titan knew it. The stone wormed deeper into his mind and it fed.

His attention was broken from his battle with Thor only once, as the Quinjet hovered, the Widow and Archer readying to strike. The distraction was enough, Thor brought him to the ground.

His vision cleared.

He had to get out. Had to get away before…

Thor held his down, pressing his face, forcing his to look at the city as it fell to ash.

"Look at this!" Thor shouted, "Look around you! You think this madness will end with your rule?"

It was necessary. But Thor would see none of it. He could not. He could only see the madness in him, the monster…Loki tried to turn his head but Thor would not let him.

"It's too late," he gasped, playing to Thor's desires, "It's too late to stop it."

"No," Thor pressed on him, letting him turn his head, "We can. Together."

And the hope was so bare on his face. It wrenched something in Loki's gut.

But he couldn't. He couldn't break now or it was all for naught.

He had to get out, get away before he gave himself up or the Mad Titan took him.

Thor was attentive as he'd ever been. Loki fingered a knife from Thor's belt, and he stabbed, quick and shallow into Thor's abdomen.

Sure enough, Thor fell with a startled grunt and Loki scrambled to his feet.

Had they not played this game a thousand times?

Thor gripped the wound, hurt more in soul than body.

Loki remembered all the times they had stood together. The memories ran behind his eyes. They stung with their pressure.

"Sentiment," he scoffed, pushing them away, forcing himself into his role.

Thor attacked him, then. More fiercely than he had ever before.

Loki rolled off of the ledge to escape him, at the precise time to land on a Chitauri chariot.

Flying from Thor, dragging himself to his feet on the vessel, Loki knew that Thor would never forgive him for that.

He knew he had lost his brother.

Through hatred and jealousy and the memories that slid and fractured and changed their shape under the pressure of his reach, Loki knew that he had lost his brother. He didn't know what Thanos had done to his mind. He didn't know what impulses were his own and what were prompted by the Stone.

Frustration rose in his blood, only rivaled by the things he could recall. The dark, nightmare of the past months. The fear, palpable on the air.

 _"You think you know pain?"_

A sharp pain in the place where the scepter had touched him dragged him to the 'Other''s presence. " _This_ is a 'little resistance'?" it demanded.

Loki choked on his breath. His vision cut in and out, one moment the Void, the next, Earth. "Your force lacks…" Even _now_ they would summon him. Anger rose in the back of his throat, "finesse."

"Our warriors are _fearless_ ," It claimed, throwing out its ghastly arms. "We welcome a glorious death."

A thousand times he had heard Thor say such things. The Warriors Three. Sif. Odin. All of them prescribers to the very idea that these creatures upheld. The 'Glorious Death'. Recklessness. Stupidity. He swallowed back a lifetime of frustration and past months of revulsion and gave his head a slight shake. "That may actually be the problem."

"Then _lead them_ , King," It spat. "You wield the scepter, do you not?"

It cut the tie, throwing him back to his body and he looked at his hand.

He'd lost it.

"The scepter…"

* * *

 **That end part there is the final half of that deleted scene.**


	30. Chapter 30

He'd lost the scepter while battling Thor, and his own traitor's heart had blinded him to its loss.

The Chitauri shrieked and writhed, slaying more of their brethren than anything else, making minimal progress against the five mortals who fought alongside his brother.

 _"Then_ lead them _, King_."

He was helpless. With nothing more than these monsters as his allies, he was all but powerless. The panic that built in his blood tangled with the hold of the stone, feeding it, feeding the fears that had prompted his every action all his life.

He would be powerless no longer. And if this force he'd been granted would do nothing of _use_ , then he would do it himself.

It had always been his lot.

The woman. Somehow she had found her way to the skies. It was she who had first truly thrown his plan.

Rage thrumming intoxicatingly through his veins he dove after her.

She was nimble, for one whose path had never led her beyond her own world's technology. But she would not escape him. Not now that he was free of the cage he had wrongfully allowed SHIELD to keep him in.

Barton had been reunited with his spider. He fought, even now, to protect her.

Loki caught the arrow in his hand.

In another time – another lifetime – moments ago – he might have been disappointed that, waking, Barton recalled so little from their time together. In that moment, his hand closed on the arrow's thin shaft, and he smiled, slowly, smugly.

He remembered his promise to the woman.

 _"…slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear…"_

How slow, Barton had been, even under the stone's power, to reveal her secrets. Loki was glad that Barton should be there to witness the moment she died.

All of it passed through the fevered flush of his mind between one moment and the next.

And then the arrow had exploded. It threw him.

Impact – and reflexively, he rolled to land. He flung the hair from his face.

 _The archer was lost to him, his hold snapped by some sudden blow._

A roar split the sky and he'd been hit again. His back smashed against a wall. Shattering glass reverberated in the air and his head pounded. Pain shuddered through his body and for one moment, he could see nothing.

It had been too long that he had been helpless.

Loki rolled to his feet, shattered glass raining throughout the room of Stark's Tower.

The _Hulk_ , Banner's green monster, leapt after him, roaring and beating its chest like a huge ape.

"Enough!" Loki shouted.

The creature paused.

Heat flushed under his skin. "You are – all of you – beneath me! I am a god, you dull creature, and I will not be bullied by –"


	31. Chapter 31

He didn't know where he was, after the Beast was done with him. Even the pain was a distant echo of what he knew it should be.

Something deep behind his eyes had drawn tight and snapped in a flash of white light that gave out to color, bright color, too bright, too much, with voices too loud and memories that didn't make sense. If he moved, he was unaware of it. It took him and it was as though he had fallen into the Void again.

Hours might have passed, or days, by the time he started to come back to himself.

He became aware of his own breathing, slower than Time itself, and the slow drubbing of his heart.

Then the beating sped and tripped over itself and he gasped a breath.

He would have sat up, but his injuries would not have it. They stopped him, even though he could not feel them.

 _Yet_ , he thought wryly.

His breath came in ragged gulps, and he saw the inside of Stark's tower in flashes of vivid color that gave out alternately to black or weirdly slipping images of what they had been before.

He ached behind his eyes, and a feeling like icy water ran over him, through him, permeating his entire body.

Letting himself fall back against the stone, he waited for it to pass.

Then, trickling between the electric cold, a thought articulated itself.

He'd broken free.

The breath he dragged into his lungs flickered with laughter that couldn't make it past his throat. He'd done it. He'd broken free of the stone.

The past days were distant, fragile memories. They flared and faded and he pushed them far away from him. Slowly, as the stone's influence washed out of him, he began to feel again.

His injuries woke, slowly. His hand spasmed and closed on fragments of stone.

Distancing himself from it, he controlled his breath. He closed his eyes. He trained himself to remember. Trained himself to recall what had happened to him. What he had done.

It came, in bits and ends and alarmingly large chunks of narrative that fitted themselves into a thousand different frames and orders.

His let his head fall back against the stone, his mouth a tight line and his eyes closed, the pain sending out probing tendrils that occasionally tapped his mind, until, abruptly, his defenses gave out.

His eyes snapped open and he dragged in a breath. He grit his teeth on a sound that might have turned into a scream. The stone in his hand snapped and fragmented. A corner of it sliced his palm.

Oddly enough, that pain reached him through the throbbing presence of the rest of it, and he glanced at his hand, opening it with some difficulty to let the gravel sift through his fingers. His body shook.

Stumbling, he pressed, feeling for his magic, and it washed up. It was faint, but it would be enough.

He had to get up.

Slowly, agonizingly, he did it. He turned to lift himself out of the wreck of the floor.

Then there was a sound.

He turned.

Arrayed behind him were the five humans, and Thor. They watched him as though they had been there some time.

His mind flickering back to some semblance nearer _self_ , he assessed them.

All of them were there, and not one of them was truly injured. The six of them were brought together.

He'd broken Thanos' hold.

His breath came easier. His thoughts flew a thousand places at once.

'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' would not have arrayed against him if their city were yet crumbling to ash.

He'd done it.

"If it's all the same to you," he pushed himself just the slightest bit up on the crumbled stone. "I'll have that drink, now."

* * *

 **And for anybody who wants to know what happens IMMEDIATELY next, I'm posting that chapter from Thor's POV as chapter 14 of 'Ghost of You'. It should be up tomorrow. And for whatever reason, it's becoming one of my favorite chapters of that fic.  
**


	32. Chapter 32

'Earth's Mightiest Heroes' had him imprisoned once more. How many days it lasted Loki neither knew nor cared. In after-times he could never recall a number, or even the feeling of the time that passed – the pulse of the days. He was put into a cage that would have been child's play to break free of. He knew it as he looked over the mechanisms when they clicked into place.

He lacked any will to do so.

He was imprisoned by them, and he was left.

Each of them came – the heroes who had bested him – at one time or another, for varying lengths of time. A few of them spoke to him. A few merely watched him with their eyes threatening death and their arms bound by their government's law. He spoke to none of them. He did not respond in any way. They did not touch him.

It was enough.

All of them came, one by one, to visit him. All except Thor.

Thor did not come.

The only time he saw Thor in that time was what felt to be a great deal of time later, when Thor accompanied the ones who brought the muzzle. And even then, Thor would not look at him.

It was just as well.

Several of what were assuredly their most skilled agents were allowed into his cell, with Thor an incompetent guard behind them. Thor would not watch. And they fixed the muzzle to him. He made no move against them.

It occurred to him to be offended by the gesture. He lacked the energy for it.

Then they came again. They forbade him his voice. They brought him under guard and manacled to an armored black car and from that car to a place in the outer world. The sun was bright. It hurt his eyes and made his head swim.

It might not have been out of his better interest, he thought, to sleep.

His SHIELD-appointed escort abandoned him to Thor.

Thor did not speak to him.

Loki did not expect him to.

Thor bade his friends farewell.

They looked at him, and they laughed. A few openly, others in the depths of their eyes.

Loki's heart tripped over itself a little. The old anger flickered to life in his breast. For one moment, he knew that – should he again have his freedom, no matter how long the centuries that might go by – he would return and he would hunt them for sport through the skirts and byways of this realm. He would rise and grind their failure in the faces of all who had challenged him.

Then the moment passed with a shivering like the tip of claws on raw skin. He took the handle of the housing device Thor offered him.

 _Home._

He felt briefly sick.

He hadn't time for that. He knew what came next. He shoved it aside.

Earth fell away behind them.

Thor led him, manacled and muzzled, to Odin's great hall. Thor left him there.

He made no move to defend himself.

The AllFather freed his tongue.

Confronted with Odin, the past that had felt so far away bare days ago flashed sudden and searing in his face and he found that he'd rather bear the consequences Odin chose to dole him than plead his own innocence or tell the truth. He would rather _anything_ than to speak of what he had undergone, or to warn this man of what was to come.

As he was taken to a new cell, one deep below the palace, he thought of that. Thought of the chaos and the cruelty and the madness of what he had done. Of what he had been. Of what he had made himself. Of what he had been made. Touching it hurt him. It flared behind his eyes in the neon colors he recognized from the floor of Stark's tower. It stuck in the nerves behind his eyes like rusted nails.

He stumbled and his vision swam. He thought he might be sick. The Enheriar shoved him upright and grimly, he kept his feet.

He ached straight through him. The placement of their hands on his body flared and prickled sickly. His breaths failed him. Without Odin's audience before him to steady him, his defenses were giving out.

He found it rather amusing, in its own way, when he collapsed against one of the guards.

He was only vaguely conscious of it when they left him.

Then he was alone.

The strength gave out in his limbs and he let himself onto the floor. The world spun and dove. And then the blackness washed up, and it swallowed him.

Eventually, unconsciousness gave out to sleep, a sleep that was dreamless and bottomless as death.

A few times, he woke, but only barely. He would come to the surface long enough to open his eyes and see the light that imbued the world his body inhabited. Long enough to inhale a breath. Then he let it go and it all fell away once more, into the solace of the nighttime.

Fragmented thoughts – perhaps they were memories – flashed in bursts, momentarily dispelling in the darkness. He felt it had been a long time that he had slept. They disturbed him.

He began to wake more fully, and he clung to the dark. The waking world threatened him, though he couldn't remember why.

Once, he woke to find his mother's face above his own.

Moving his arm back from his eyes to better see her, he thought her no more than a dream. He studied her.

And she, him.

He had dreamed of her many times. He knew that. But never like this. Always she spoke. If she was dream, he concluded, finally, she was a poor one. As memory served him, Mother had never looked so worn.

"Are you warm enough?" she asked.

Her words started him. They were tangible, _real_ , as nothing from the darkness had been. They were jarring in their presence.

Their meaning filtered into his mind.

He…was not _cold_ , he decided, though he did not entirely understand the question.

One way or another, he must have communicated as much, because she smiled, a soft, sad expression, and her image blurred and dimmed and faded.

He did not sleep long after that.


	33. Chapter 33

He slept until the nightmares started.

He didn't sleep any more after that.

* * *

When he woke, he found he was on a bed, of a sort, and tangled in a blanket.

He knew they had not been there when he had first been left.

Sitting up, he rested his forehead in his palm, and he recalled that first "dream" of his mother. He thought that perhaps she had not been a dream.

With a dropping feeling like the ground falling away underneath him, he remembered other things. Dream. Memory. What was the difference. He bent double over one arm and he breathed deeply the smell of home.

It was not a palace smell. But it was something underneath the smell of the prison. After being so long away, he recognized it.

Fear ran liquid in his veins, fear that he could not place, could not name. Fear of the dark, fear of dreams. He distracted himself. The distance helped him.

He was dressed in something more suitable to his current place, he noticed. Not armor any longer, but clothes he might have worn in the old days, had he no audience to attend. He did not recall being brought clothing, or changing. Dispassionately, he wondered if it was merely something of the brief waking times that he had lost, or if she had done it for him.

It would have been his mother. None else would have cared.

Lifting his head out of his hand he sat back on the bed and he surveyed what he could see. It was little. The dungeons were kept dark, and the cell walls vibrated with golden lights. The clean, white walls reflected the light into the cell, blinding the prisoners to anything that gave off less light. It was a precaution to keep the prisoners visible and the guards, more-or-less hidden.

He had known what safeguards placed in the dungeons. He had never known how they were perceived from within.

The walls were white and unmarked, the edges where they met were crisp. At the moment, they did not bother him, though they added to the exposed feeling of the cell.

Tentatively, he touched his magic, drawing it out just a strand at a time, teasing it loose to test its boundaries and see what it could do about his situation.

It snapped and he hissed in pain, his hands closing to fists. Carefully, he let out a long breath. He opened his eyes.

That had been unwise.

His magic was tapped elsewhere. At another time, when he had rested enough, he might have known that.

He felt that he had slept days if not weeks, but the time had been enough only to remind him of his deeper wounds. Those repressed and ignored for so long that his body had ceased to do more than keep him alive. There were places in him that had never healed. Not from his fall. Not from any number of encounters he could no longer bring to mind. Not from his battle on Earth.

Not from the things that kept him wakeful now.

He could feel them. A deep, all-present ache that trembled along his every extremity. He was doubtful that he could stand.

He lay back on the bed and stared in the direction of the ceiling.

He let out a long, unsteady breath.

Weariness pressed on his eyelids. He would have slept. But he knew what awaited him, should he abandon his vigil.

Contained he was helpless. He had run out his last reserve, and his body had failed him, insisting on the measures he'd denied it to heal itself. He could no more touch his magic than he could force his heart to cease.

For one moment his eyes drifted shut.

He saw the 'Other' lower the spear to touch his heart. Felt the stone's control worm into his chest like a hand gripping him by the throat, lifting his feet off the ground. He caught his breath like the stone beneath his knees had fallen away though he could _feel_ it under his hands. Distantly, as through water, he could hear the 'Other' laugh at his distress.

Dragging breath back into his chest he rolled upright. Breathing raggedly, he rubbed the place on his chest where the point had touched. The corners of the room flared in colors that were unnatural to it and he shut his teeth, waiting for the moment to pass.

Wryly, when he'd achieved enough clarity to attempt rational thought once more, he accepted that that was mainly what he would be concerning himself with for the foreseeable future, more starkly than he ever had before. Waiting for one moment to pass into another for an unending time.

He wondered despondently what he thought he was waiting for.

No answer came to him, but a deep, insisting ache from the inside of his spine.

* * *

He woke with a jolt and a deep unease that, this time, only bordered on panic. He had no memory of his dream.

Time passed him slowly, if it passed at all. There was no way to mark the time from the inside of his cell, and he had long since ceased to note the passing of days from any point in his own mind.

He was not strong enough, yet, to pace. It nagged at him that he could not move. It was a restlessness that he well recalled. It conjured images and emotions from his youth – a past that was so far away it felt as though it belonged to another. A past where a boy had often been sick, and more often injured. A past where his mother had come to visit him, and sometimes, his brother. His father had not come.

It was an old thing. He didn't like to remember it.

He moved around what little he could, both due to the space allowed and his state. Some days he would walk no more than the length of his cell before the ceiling would sway and he would have to get down. Should he push himself beyond that, he found, he would feel again the cold wash of the stone leaving his mind, and the cell would flash in colors, and the nails would stab deep into the flesh behind his eyes.

He learned not to move, much.

He knew Odin would see him again. Sooner or later, the old man would call for him, and he would demand some sort of explanation for his crimes.

He wondered what he would tell the AllFather.

Blandly, he considered that he might tell the truth.

A sudden, hot flush burned the skin of his face and his jaw shut. He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. He forced his hands open.

He waited for the acidic rush in his veins to abate before he thought that, no. If Odin had wanted an ally, he might have been slower to provide a cage.

Leaning his head back as far as it would go against the wall, he blew out a long, slow breath. Then, in a quick stab of panic, he opened his eyes.

He would not let himself sleep.

* * *

 **Okay, sorry, forgot to tag this on the end of the last chapter, BUT, if you want the first interaction between Loki and Odin, I posted it as chapter 36 of my fic 'Little Lion Man'. You don't need to read the rest of that fic for it to make sense.**

 **Also. If you want to see some Loki/Frigga conversation (they are _possibly_ my favorite thing right now) I will be posting the first part of it _probably_ tomorrow, possibly the next day, as chapter 26 of my _other_ fanfiction, 'A Little More'. You _also_ don't have to read the entirety of that fic to have the chapter make sense. **

**'All Rise' and 'A Little More' are gonna be sorta symbiotic for a little while, but I'll try and remember to tag the ends of chapters where you might wanna bop over. Frigga's spending a lot of time thinking about the things that Loki says yo her, while Loki is miserable and doesn't want to think about it, so he's not saying much about his interactions with his mom. I think it's very worth it, but you'll have to get that from her pov story.**


	34. Chapter 34

" _Will you not tell me what happened?"_

It was a simple thing his mother asked of him. And it was kind. She would hear in his own voice what it was that he had to say. She would hear his defense from his own lips when no one else would listen. He knew that she would plead his cause to the AllFather.

It was just as it had always been when he had been a child.

But.

He told her to get out.

It was petulant. He knew that.

She approached him too quickly, and he had not expected that.

Worrying at his left thumbnail with his teeth when he was alone, he considered that he ought to tell her, loathe as he was. But he need not tell her all. He need not share his despondence and how far he had fallen. He need not show his weakness. It would be easy enough to tell how he had brought the humans together. Easy enough to say, in no greater words, that his involvement with the Chitauri was no more than a ploy.

She would plead his cause to the AllFather. Odin would doubt. Thor would argue.

But Frigga would believe him.

From the moment she asked him, he knew that.

It was only after she had gone and he was left on his own, that he realized how he had been caught.

He heard her re-telling of his actions. He heard their doubts, their accusations. Counterarguments sprang to his lips.

But he could not make them.

His heart beat thickly in the top of his chest.

He had killed. He had attempted his brother's life. He would have slain the very mortals he was claiming to bring together, each in their turn. He had unleashed the Chitauri on their world with intent to destroy. He had longed for that chaos, that violence. He'd thirsted after death. Even now, his hands itched to tear the throats of those whose actions had dictated that he be left here.

Abandoned, even as he had been as a babe.

His hands closed in his hair and he breathed a long exhale that grated his raw throat.

He would not tell them.

More than that. He would not tell _her_.

She had abandoned him no less than any of the others. Her betrayal was greater, because she had promised him. She had promised that she would never lie to him. She would never leave him.

" _I remember you_ tossing _me into an abyss. I who_ was _, and_ should be _king!"_

Breathing hard, he recalled the quick misgiving in his breast as he heard the words. He recalled their taste. He remembered abruptly knowing as he shouted them at Thor that those words he had grown to believe were only no more than another lie. He recalled the fear that had edged on despair that he had had no time to face in that moment.

Not only were there none he might trust, his own mind had been so warped in his own weakness that he could not rely on his own thought.

Or his memory.

Not only would he not tell her –

– She would know him for what he was.

– She would see him as the monster he was.

– The monster he had let himself be made.

– The monster he had made himself in his rage.

Not only would he not tell her, he _could not_.

Shuddering, Loki smeared the tear on his cheek away with the heel of his palm.

Distantly, he thought he could remember a plan. A wild plan. Where he could shake the hold of his captors and fall once again into the hands of his once-family. He would bare the schemes of his captor to the protectors of the realms and he would drag together the scattered warriors that pocked Midgard's surface. He would ready them for the fight, should Asgard's defenses somehow prove too thin.

Those had been the plans yet of a boy. A boy burned by the dark. Not the _thing_ that had emerged, swallowed and scarred beyond recall by the dark.

Midgard's hosts had gathered. But Loki had only been the force against them. He had intended their death. He had longed for dominance over them, for dominion of their world. He had believed the lie of his captor, that he should rule once they were dead. Once his brother was dead.

What he had meant and what had been done were twisted together in a snarl beyond his skill, welded by the power of the stone that had touched him.

As he knelt, with his forehead in his palm and the breaths rushing in his throat, he understood the utter cruelty of the ploy his captors had used on him.

His memory was shattered. And more than that, his mind had been taken from him. The partiality of the theft made it only more insidious. He was forbidden any defense.

Stubbornly, he insisted that the riddle was one he _might_ yet solve.

He rubbed his hand down his face. He knew the taste of a lie.

Should Odin demand a full consideration of his actions, the Council might find the ploy he had all but managed to bungle, even _without_ the 'heroes' help.

But Odin would not do it. Odin had demanded already that he speak for himself. Odin would not play his hand over. He was not one to change his tactics mid-battle. Loki had watched Odin enough times as he held trial. Odin would demand he speak.

And there was nothing he could say that was not lie.

Closing his eyes, Loki almost laughed. He couldn't but help to appreciate to artistry.

He leaned his head back against the wall.

He would be left here, forever.


	35. Chapter 35

"The prisoner will stand with his back to the barrier, hands visible. The prisoner will make no movement."

Loki rolled to his feet with no change of expression evident on his face.

He let the guard fit him with the chains they had deemed necessary.

He didn't think about it.

They brought him wordlessly to the Great Hall, where Odin sat in his throne.

Loki knew where they were taking him from the moment they had demanded his attention.

They did not speak as they directed him.

He didn't mind it. He wanted the silence.

He needed the time.

He would not admit to the tremor in his hands. He would not let it translate to his voice.

The manacles made his wrists heavy.

Movement drained him. His enforced rest had done little as yet to alter his weariness.

But he was healed. It would only be a matter of time before he was strong enough to break what bonds held him.

Even as he thought it he knew it was ludicrous.

Odin held court unaccompanied, though Loki knew most trials were held with many to witness. Odin did not permit even the guards to remain.

Indignation flared behind his breast. Odin thought him so little an opponent that he would conduct this trial alone? Because it _was_ a trial. He had never been summoned to Odin's presence when it was not.

Odin said nothing, but studied him.

Loki tipped his chin back and let him. He would not grovel to this king.

Then Odin drummed his fingers on the shaft of his great spear.

He straightened with an in-drawn breath. "You used BiFrost," he said, "as a weapon."

Loki said nothing. His teeth locked together.

Odin nodded his head. "None other had ever suggested it."

Odin said nothing more, and after a moment, Loki let his curiosity win. "Even you?"

Odin eyed him. "I had."

Loki turned his head and looked past the pillars that held up the domed ceiling. He pressed his lips thin. Part of him wanted to look. Wanted to see how his likeness had been scrubbed out of the murals. He did not.

"I had hoped," Odin continued, slowly, "That none other would conceive of its power, as a weapon."

"Well, I rather think that Heimdal," Loki said. His own audacity thrilled in his blood, "had already thought of that. You ought to be careful, leaving him so long on his own."

When he turned to smile at Odin, the AllFather was looking down on him sternly.

"I had hoped," Odin decided, more darkly, "that my _son_ might prove wiser."

"But I'm not your son, am I?" Loki snapped. "How _long_ had you intended to wait to tell me that? Or were you just going to – wait and hope to the Norns that I never ventured into Jotunheim and found out for myself?"

"Would you _rather_ be Laufey's son?" Odin asked, once again setting aside the temper Loki had expected. "Guilty now of patricide and regicide both? A runt doomed to fail at maintaining the throne he had thoughtlessly stolen?"

"I would rather be _anyone's_ son!" Loki seethed. He cursed himself for the tears that boiled behind his eyes.

"I raised you and Thor as equals." Odin said, implacably.

"Equals in what?" he demanded. "We were never _equals_. You –"

"Everything!" Odin barked.

Loki stopped.

Slowly, the AllFather sat back. "It was my intent to raise you both, equal in prominence, equal in strength, equal in wisdom." He gave a wry chuckle. "It is my failing that did not impart to you the difference between being _equal_ and being _the same_."

Tears burned on the edges of his eyes. "I'm sure it looks lovely," Loki said, "looking back _all those years_. Never mind that it is a lie, along with _all_ the rest of it. _He_ was your son," he spat the words bitterly, " _I_ was never more than a _bargaining chip_ in your game."

"Well then," Odin mocked, "I suppose, having dredged up the last of your usefulness to me in that arena I might as well cast you away."

Stung, Loki drew back. The chains clanged together as he moved. His breath pounded in his chest.

"Thor did not attempt the subjugation of a realm, or the destruction of another. _Thor_ did not orchestrate the murder of countless innocents. And Thor," Odin's voice softened, "did not begin two wars within the space of that many years."

Loki opened his mouth to argue, but he had no voice, and he shut it again, writhing under his own impotence.

"You have nothing to say of your actions on Midgard?"

Starring at the tiles of the floor on the far side of the throne room, Loki's breaths were harsh in his throat.

"I would have done," he managed at length, "anything for you."

"Anything," Odin said, "but the one thing I asked."

Gungnir's butt rang against the tiles on the floor.

"You will be returned to your cell, until I see fit to speak with you again."


	36. Chapter 36

"Where was it," Odin asked, "that you were, in the twelve-month you were lost in the Void."

He sat high on the dais, as he sat for all their audiences.

Loki stood below, manacled, seething.

Months he had remained in the dungeons. He knew it because his mother had told him so. His own reckoning would have deemed it longer. Much longer. His body had long-since healed. He was twitching and wild and he hated.

He kept his voice low, and clipped. His despair, his fury, his pleading, had done nothing to move the AllFather. He had rather thought he'd given up on the old man over a year ago. But his heart was a tortuous thing. It betrayed him but little, these days.

"There are worlds," he answered at length, "to which any within the safeguard of Yggrdasil are blind. Even _you_ , AllFather."

Odin gave a dry laugh, fingering his spear. "But not to clever Loki."

Anger flared in his breast. "Finding myself _cast out_ , yes."

Odin eyed him. "And you walked amongst them, these worlds?"

 _Walked_. Loki closed his eyes as images flashed nauseatingly behind them. Images. Memories. Dreams.

Opening his eyes, he tilted his chin. "Yes." He did not give the sensation of _falling_ time to leave him before he moved. He would not have Odin see him thus. Weak. Not again.

"You met the Chitauri there, and you won their aid," Odin said. "The Tesseract, in exchange for Midgard. Where Loki could finally be king."

He closed his teeth on the dizzy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He summoned a thin smile. "I was raised with a rather…specific skill set, if you'll recall."

"And a respect for the life on the realms that it seems has not carried over into your adulthood."

The dizziness left him in a flush of heat. "Where was that respect, _AllFather_ , in your _many_ wars? Asgard was a conquering nation beneath the AllFather Bor _and_ his son. There was no respect. There was death and carnage and a Realm Eternalrising from the bloodshed."

"You speak," Odin slammed the butt of Gungnir against the ground, "of a history you do not understand. Or were you there," he said, softer, "in your wisdom?"

Closing his eyes, Loki let the silence hang. Then he said, softly. "I, spoke out of turn, AllFather." He tipped his chin back that he might look Odin in the face. "A pity I was not better taught."

Odin's temper did not better him, as Loki had rather hoped it might. Instead, the old man looked at him, quizzically. "This is all you would say, given audience with me?"

" _I_ did not seek it." Loki snapped.

"Then you would rather go back to your cell?"

"What hope is there for me otherwise? Patricide," he spat, "regicide, treason, genocide, treachery. What else is left for the hound that bites than a cage or an axe?"

"Leave these platitudes and _tell me plainly_ ," Odin got to his feet. "Did you commit these crimes?"

" _You saw_ ," Loki hissed. "And what you didn't see you were told by your favored son. _Why_ would you trust the Liesmith's tongue when you refused that to his predecessor?"

 _I only ever wanted to be your son._

"Always you have clung to your illusions, Loki."

Loki turned his head away, breath erratic in his throat. His hands, hanging manacled and heavy before him, worked open and closed.

Finally, he heard Odin resume his place on the throne.

"I'm curious though," Loki said lowly, before Odin could break the silence, "what you _would_ have done, had I not learned the truth."

A beat of silence passed before he heard Odin sigh.

"Would you – one day – have told me freely of my heritage?" he felt his blood heating, rushing in his veins. "Or would you merely have _shipped_ me off to Jotunheim without explanation to _bring your peace_?"

"Loki, after all you have done," Odin said. He looked weary, "this is hardly of import."

"I think I have a right to know." Loki demanded.

"You have a _right_ ," Odin threw one hand down, "to the air you breathe." Then he sat back, quieter, "though it is at times like this that you make me doubt even that."

"You never wanted a second son," Loki said bitterly, "you only ever wanted a tool for your intrigues."

"If you will not trust my words to the contrary, then there is little point in my repetition of them."

Tears burned Loki's eyes though his mouth was curved like a grim smile. "There was never _trust_ between us."

"Then there is no more that can be accomplished by our continuing discussion."

* * *

 **Hear in Morgan Freeman's voice "Loki is very conflicted at this time."**

 **Sorry updates have been sketchy. I'm publishing as I write now, so updates are at the mercy of my spare time.**

 **On the plus side, I'm now planning to extend this fic through the events of _Ragnarok_ , and - should whatever Fates that be dictate - _Infinity Wars_ too. We'll have to see. **

**In the meantime, if you want more of Loki being conflicted and shooting himself in the foot (and as a bonus want to know where Odin and Frigga's heads are through all this) read chapters 26-32 of my fic _A Little More_. Chapter 33 of that fic is PROBABLY my favorite thing I've written recently. HEAVY Loki/Frigga conflict. Stay tuned.**


	37. Chapter 37

The months had drawn one into another in an endless monotone of existence that was not life.

And Odin brought him forth again.

They argued. As they always argued.

Odin accusing and asking.

Loki accepting and defending. Never answering.

Finally, Odin drew up on his throne, and Loki felt all the light sucked out of the room and gathering, ready to strike.

"There is nothing that can be done." Gungnir rang against the tiled floor. "Take him back to his cell."

Suddenly, awfully, Loki knew that he could not go back. He couldn't face that cell again.

He lurched forward, and, startled at his own movement he stammered, "No – Father – wait."

All this time, not once had Loki called Odin 'Father'.

That gave the AllFather pause. Odin eyed him curiously. "There is more you would say to me?"

Dizzy heat flushed through his body. Wavering, he lowered to his knees. "Yes," he managed.

Above him, Odin made some motion to the guards, biding them away.

Sick and trembling, Loki opened his palm against the pattern of the tiles. It felt cold, and very, very far away from him.

"What is it that Loki would say?"

He didn't have it in him to take offense at the mockery of Odin's tone. His breaths rasped as he forced himself to raise his head. But he would not meet Odin's eye. He couldn't.

"….I…didn't," he swallowed thickly, gulping back the nausea, "…find them."

When he opened his eyes, Odin was watching him. There was no expression on his face and Loki steeled himself, turning his head away. Shame rose from the pit of his stomach and slid up his neck, but his desperation was stronger.

"I was…taken," he managed, thickly. Images flashed behind his eyes. Phantom pains jerked along the nerves of his arms and he dug his fingers against the ground. "They were working for another. They…kept me. For nearly _a year_ ," his breath hitched raggedly and he pressed his eyes shut.

"They wanted _nothing_ ," he continued at length, softer. "They never spoke to me. There was _no end_ until…" he raised his head, unconcerned with the tears that streaked his face. "I _found_ the Tesseract," he said. "I _promised_ them I could get it. For a _little_ price. A _little_ world. I…I needed to buy time," his voice faded to a whisper, "and find a way to get a message to you…"

"A message?" Odin asked. "What message?"

"There," Loki dragged a shuddering breath, "is something out there," he said. "Something unlike _anything_ even _you_ have faced before."

Odin did not speak for what felt like a long time. Finally, Loki raised his head.

The AllFather was not looking at him. "This danger is great?"

"Yes."

"To withhold," Odin said slowly, "such warning, _could_ be deemed treason."

Loki watched him levelly, but he couldn't bear the weight of his gaze and after a moment he shut his eyes.

"And I suppose that you brought your war on the mortals only to warn them?" Odin asked.

Loki winced, though he did not open his eyes. Tears burned his face.

"You kept your casualties to a minimum, relying on the fervor of your forces to blind them to your tactic."

"It…" he said, lowly, through streaking tears, "was my intention."

"You would plead your innocence in the events for which you were imprisoned?"  
"No." He opened his eyes and looked at his father. "Not innocence."

"If not innocence," Odin gave a slight shake of his head, "then what?"

"I…" something shuddered inside his lungs and he doubled toward the ground. His hand came up and covered his eyes. Re-claiming himself he pushed it back down, grinding out, " _I. Don't. Know._ "

"What proof have you? Beyond your words?"

" _None_." Loki put his head back to bare his throat and face his father. "I have none."

"Then why should I believe your word, above the words of my Gatekeeper?"

"Because _I got past him_!" Loki shouted. "If _I_ – in his very _realm_ – could sneak into the halls of your _greatest enemy_ – What is to stop a threat _outside of Yggdrasil_ to hide itself from him?"

Odin's face did not change. "What did you tell them?" he asked.

Loki's breath rushed in his throat.

"When they broke you," Odin shifted to lean forward on his throne. "What secrets did you babble in your pain?"

Flashes of light spun around his head, and Loki felt that he was falling again. Falling, and he could not breathe.

Then Odin's face was directly beside his. "What is his name?"

 _Thanos_.

Loki woke. His face was wet with tears, his throat raw and his breaths shuddering.

Bitterly taking in the confines of his cell, Loki sat up and put his feet onto the solid ground. He wrapped one arm around himself, gathering back the jagged edges of his breath. His jaw ached from how tightly he had closed his teeth.

The hand he put over his face was cold.


	38. Chapter 38

Staring at the ceiling, it occurred to him that he had not expected Frigga to be kind.

Odin had not been kind. Odin had had him cast out. It had been months since their last audience. And Loki was sure that Thor had long-since forgotten him.

The last time he had seen his brother, was when Thor had gone to take the Tesseract to its place in the Vault. All creatures have a point where their will is broken, and they _learn_. And Thor had finally learned to give up on him.

He'd grown so accustomed to Thor's resilience, that he had not expected it.

He'd known his brother lost during the battle on Midgard. It was a thing that had had to happen. There would have been no other way.

No other way to bare the plans he could not trust. His mind had fractured under the pressure of the Stone, and with its removal he had shattered. It was a fail-safe he had neglected to consider and it had ruined him.

Though what _else_ had he expected, he mused bitterly. What _else_ was the lot of his kind.

Not _just_ Jotun. Oath-breaker. Kin-Slayer. _King_ -Slayer.

He was a player in intrigues and it was the risk of the game that it could fail. And he was suffering the outcome of failure. He'd known it a possibility.

It was only that he'd rather thought he might be able to speak in his own defense.

And, after everything, he'd expected Frigga to hate him, along with all the rest.

She'd caught him, once, in the throes of a nightmare. He had spoken in his sleep, or cried out – she had not said and he had not dared to ask. She guessed that his actions were not of his own will. She guessed that he was forced.

And it would have been _so easy_ to say yes. To admit that he had been taken. To admit that he had been broken. To face her tears and embraces. To accept her promises of help.

But all the time he would have known it to be yet another snake in the grass. That snake would have raised its head and its bite would have been the death of her.

 _"Truth will have out, in the end,"_ she had cautioned him as a child. The irony of it did not escape him, though what drew blood as he thought it, was the truth behind the words.

She guessed that it had been against his will that he had acted. But it had not. He had wanted to kill them. All of them. His brother amongst the rest. And once he had claimed that world – through the blood and the ashes he would have turned to Asgard. He would have looked for the recognition he had sought so greedily as a child. And he would have laughed. He would have readied Midgard's strength, teaching them what they did not know, and he would have led them against what had once been his home.

He saw her in his mind, pleading with him that those were only the machinations of he who had applied the Stone's powers on him, but he knew that was not the truth. He tasted _lie_ , and the tang of it curdled in his blood.

She visited him, though not frequently enough to dispel the boredom. In the first days she had begged answer of him, begged that he speak to her as he had once done. The ache of his refusal remained, even once she had ceased to ask. It nettled him, and he lashed out at her. He knew he oughtn't. He wanted to give her the consolation that she was – in part – correct. But he knew she would not rest until he had told her all.

She should not visit him. He seethed to himself. He deserved none of her devotion.

A large part of him was surprised that he had not yet managed to drive her away.

It frightened him that, one day, he yet might.

He had not, truly, expected Thor to leave him.

He'd thought Thor might visit, at least once, to plead with him. To remind him of their brotherhood. But Thor did not, and after a time, Loki stopped expecting it.

If Thor had met him on Midgard and seen the ploy, Loki would have broken. He would have crumbled under old habits, and he would have admitted everything to Thor. All would have been lost.

 _"Come home_."

Recalling the traitorous tug of his heart, and the supplication in Thor's face, Loki closed his eyes.

He'd broken free of Thor's pull. It had haunted him since childhood. He was free of it, now. He supposed he owed Thor thanks, in some off-hand way, for casting him out, that final time. It had finally been enough.

But he had never wanted Thor to forget about him.

His hand closed spasmodically on the cup in his fingers and it bit into his palm. Carelessly casting it on the ground, Loki rolled to his feet and began to pace. He felt cramped and wild. There was nothing on which he could spend his energy, nothing on which he could focus his mind.

Restlessly, he paced.

Kindness, was the cruelest of tormentors.

* * *

 **Chapter 33 of _A Little More_ comes a little after this chronologically, and it will be the next thing I publish. It is also - possibly - my favorite Loki/Frigga interaction yet. It should be up in a couple days if you want to check it out.**


	39. Chapter 39

His hands shook.

He'd walked _miles_ in this cell, in this day alone.

If it _was_ day. He didn't know.

Whirling on his heel, he seethed that he _didn't know_.

His hands were shaking and he worked them in and out of fists to hide it.

Stopping, he looked at the bare, hopeless, _white_ of the cell.

Falling backward onto the bed, Loki gave up.

He pushed against his eyes, willing the pain out from behind them. Nothing he'd tried yet alleviated the dull ache. It was yet one more annoyance. He didn't sleep much.

He thought of his mother. He heard his voice in his head and if he could he would have scrubbed her out. He wanted to hate her. He wanted to blame her for all that had happened.

She still visited him, sometimes. And every time she left the thought came to haunt him that she might not come back. He might have done it this time.

Mere days ago, she had come to him. She'd seen him at his weakest. She'd seen him as he fell into one of his fits, when fear overcame every rational sense of his mind. It happened every so often, and he hated it, _hated it_ with all the strength of his being. There was no _reason_ for it, no inciting cause. It came as it chose like the chills in a fever and there was nothing he could do to stop it from overwhelming him.

She had helped him to come out of it more quickly than was normal.

He'd always sought solace in her.

And he _hated_ , still, that she could reach him.

He wanted to hate her, along with all the rest.

She, of all the others, loved him. And he hated himself as the monstrosity of a creature that he _must be,_ to want so desperately to hate the one thing that in any way cherished him.

At least in the past – in the worlds beyond the Nine, in the time before that, in the time after – there had been others. Not who loved him, but other _creatures_. He recalled the feeling of fists colliding with his body. The feeling of Thor's arm pressed against his throat until he could see stars. The feeling of other bodies pressed together in a crowded space and being herded like an animal.

He had sought death.

He felt weightless, sometimes. Like his body did not exist in any true way and all that remained of him was a shapeless, seething malcontent.

His fingers dug into his arms.

He remembered, once, when he had spoken ill to the guardsman Odin had sent. He recalled the taste of blood in his mouth.

Odd, to miss something like that.

But it was better than _this_.

He schemed sometimes, as he paced, or when his strength went out and he lay blankly staring up at his ceiling. He thought of ways to engineer his escape. He imagined all he might do once vengeance was in his grasp. Sometimes he worked to set things in motion.

But always he called it back.

He remembered his mother. It was not yet time. He writhed under his own impotence.

Sometimes all thought left him, and all that remained was, in fact, the white of the ceiling above him. In those times, sometimes, his breath would fade to nothing, and his limbs were too heavy for movement.

In those times, he willed his heart to stop.

Then the time passed and he would pace again, anger roiling just beneath the surface of his skin, energy with no outlet, strength with no purpose and he _knew_ , that, should he escape, he would not rest until the world burned.

The ceiling above him was a clean palate.

 _Emotion_ , he thought rather suddenly – in a voice nearly forgotten from his past – _is your enemy_. Lying there, Loki nearly laughed. It was true. _Though at the moment_ , he answered, _I feel none_. He was good as dead, looking at the ceiling above him. Watching it like it might do some great thing.

His hatred was so near. He traced his fingers along the surface of it, and he shuddered. But he felt nothing.

A presence stopped just without his cell.

"The AllFather would speak with the prisoner."

"After so long?" Loki murmured, too lowly for the guardsman to hear.

Then he rolled to his feet, and without a word further, he obeyed his summons.

* * *

 **And _here...we...GO._**

 **(Yes, he's being summoned to have THAT conversation. The one at the beginning of TDW that made all of us - at least temporarily - hate Odin)  
**

 **So, I've done some research, and solitary confinement is a bitch. I've been using that for the past couple chapters - both of this and of _A Little More_. For anybody interested, this is the article i viewed most frequently. (just take out all the asterisks and spaces)  
**

ht***tps:/*/steinhardt .nyu .edu/appsych/opus/issues/2015/spring/corcoran

 **As for any other notes...I'm about through with what I have to say that's pre-TDW. I'm also - officially - out of previously written material for this fic. The next chapter should take place during the timeline of TDW. So, bad news is that you're going to have to continue waiting roughly a week between updates. The good news is I shouldn't get any MORE lazy about it than I already have.**

 **Only other thing is that - as I re-read these last few chapters of this fic, I get a little bored, because it's all in his head. If you want to see the dialogue and conflict with the other characters, check out the last few chapters of _A Little More_ and _Little Lion Man_. Specifically _A Little More._ I think there's a lot of interesting conflict in the end of that one. The panic attack I alluded to in this chapter is actually the last chapter I published in that story, too (chapter 34) - for anybody interested in hurt/comfort of the mother/son variety.**

 **Chapter 33 and 34 of _A Little More_ may actually be my favorite Loki/Frigga interactions that I have ever written. But that's neither here nor there.**

 **Shameless plugging aside, thanks for reading, I appreciate the hell out of your guys spending your time on my work, and God bless all of us as we prepare ourselves for _Infinity War._**


	40. Chapter 40

**Sorry about making you wait so long!**

* * *

He was barred from seeing her again.

Seething, Loki rounded on one heel and paced to the far opposite side of his cell.

So, he'd finally done it. Nothing surprising in that. He'd made a maudlin fool of himself, weeping over it in the AllFather's presence. But he was uneven on his feet, and the sentence had come as rather a shock, at the time. It ought not have, he considered, but with the grace granted by hindsight all things were clearer.

Tears boiled at the edges of his eyes. His bowed his head, whirling to face the other side of the cell, he would not let them fall. He hated this new weakness in himself.

He reached for his magic. It was a move of impulse – he'd often in his youth distracted himself or given vent to his emotions through its workings – and he did not expect to be answered. His magic had not been taken from him in his imprisonment. He was barred from contact with the widest reach of Yggdrasil and thus reliant only on his own strength. Thus the simplest healings and glamours were the limit of his current scope.

What he drew to hand was an illusion, a glass – solid to his grasp – which he flung to the floor. It shattered with a terrific sound, and evaporated into tendrils of greyish-green that writhed from the floor like smoke.

It was a moment later that Loki realized the impossibility of what it was he had done. He turned back to the place the glass had landed and watched the tendrils of magic in amazement so great that he all but forgot his latest grievance.

Crouching – as thought proximity to the place could tell him something of it – he traced the ground with his fingertips.

 _Seithr_ traced shivering up the veins in his arm, delicious, cold and wild. He caught his breath. Glancing furtively about the cell, he drew back.

Cherishing the hand as though it had been wounded, Loki retreated to the far side of the cell. Fear pounded in his chest. He couldn't have said why. Lowering himself onto the bed, he watched the place. All traces of the work he'd cast were gone as though it had never been. He traced the pad of one thumb along the inside of his wrist, following the path followed by the _seithr_. It hummed in his blood – wakened by the proximity of greater powers.

Something must have happened to weaken the dampening capabilities of the cell. Some slight crack or fissure. Enough to bear an illusion and allow its release. Nothing more, he judged, as he prodded at it. Nothing that was of true use…but still.

It had been so long.

Carefully, tentatively, Loki traced the shape of a flower, and drew it to life, above the opened palm of his hand.

He watched it, the magic humming in his blood and rising to his head.

He watched it in spellbound wonder for several moments.

He remembered the first time he had managed it on his own. His mother had taught him to draw straws from the air. They were simpler. More straightforward in design. But he had known that he had the ability to go further. He remembered the surprise and excitement that had shone on her face when he had brought it to her. He had been no more than a small boy.

Shaking his head, Loki closed his fist and the flower vanished in a cloud of shimmering lights. Irritably, he dropped back onto the bed.

Was he to pass the time with _parlor tricks_?

He had been meant for more. Capable of more.

But, by the decree of the _AllFather_ , he was relegated to _this_.

Flowers. Parlor tricks.

Loki spent the following days secreted in his mind. He searched for the space through which the connection he had felt had come. The only spaces he found were infinitesimal. Discouragingly so. If he had had millennia he might have done something with them. But this?

In the throes of frustration, he created illusions. Small ones, that he could feel in the tips of his fingers and along the paths of his veins. When they were no longer enough, he crafted illusions that were larger. Images that played themselves out before him for his entertainment. Stories, dreams, memories. With the power of his mind he could make believe to rewrite the past.

Frigga sent things to him. Furniture. Books.

He was sorely tempted to touch them, but he did not. They were an attempt at conciliation for her absence. They only fanned the flames of his frustration. He was to remain _here_ for the remainder of his life, and she sent _books_? Within him, he wanted to scream. He needed movement and collision. Something against which to strive that would oppose him. Not this _wall_. Not books.

The illusions were just that. Illusions. A drug to dampen his own terror.

He knew it.

His mother's voice – so true to her that he almost looked for her presence – chided him that he was above such things.

 _Had been_ above such things, he returned.

He didn't care anymore.


End file.
